From Section VII
by girl in the glen
Summary: A series of shorts from Section VII at Live Journal. You can find the community on LJ by searching section7mfu. As always, comments are welcome.
1. Chapter 1: Keeping Up

Prompts: Genius, Silver  
Words: 620  
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"Mr. Kuryakin seems best fitted for the role, don't you agree Mr. Solo?"

Actually, Mr. Solo wasn't convinced. However, as it was Mr. Waverly's decision he thought it wise to not butt heads on the role playing that he and Illya were being assigned.

"Yes, by all means. I'm sure that his portrayal of Reginald Danbury will be, um... very convincing."

Illya thought he detected something in his partner's statement, while Waverly's eyebrows indicated a similar recognition. What was it? Certainly not jealousy. No, Mr. Solo wouldn't be jealous of an affect of genius. It was, after all, only a portrayal, not a presumption of such.

"Very well then, you have the files necessary to go forward with this assignment. I trust there is nothing else to ...' Alexander Waverly looked up, watched as each man shook his head.

"Very well then, that is all." With that the Old Man turned his chair to face the wall of lights that were summoning the attention of the man who helmed UNCLE Northwest and beyond.

Napoleon led the way out of their boss' office, his stride indicating that he didn't much care whether Illya caught up with him.

"Napoleon, wait up a minute." Illya reached out and caught Napoleon's elbow, exerting a bit of pressure in order to make his effort recognizable.

"Is there something wrong? I get the impression that you are somehow, umm... how to say it? Do you disapprove of how this assignment has been constructed?"

Illya Kuryakin had been partnered with the New York CEA for a little over a year now, and in almost every way their partnership seemed akin to eating from the proverbial **silver** spoon. They communicated well, acted instinctively with each other as though reading each other's minds. This assignment seemed different.

Napoleon tried to act nonchalant, as though he hadn't gotten a sour feeling from being designated as somehow less than the Russian. He was an intelligent man, a master at constructing scenarios and strategies. He shouldn't be affected by this, but it bothered him.

"No, nothing's wrong. I guess I just ... well, it's taking a little getting used to this ..."

The stammering did not help Illya decipher the problem. He spoke English like a native, but obtuse avoidances of the subject at hand left him clueless.

"Napoleon, is it the parts we are playing? I certainly am not claiming to be, on any level, a **genius**. It is merely the roles we have been given, not an actual reflection of ..."

Illya stopped and looked at his friend, saw the amusement mixed with what he thought might be embarrassment.

"I am not a genius. My degrees are the result of hard work, and my ability to assimilate and speak various languages... a gift, if you will allow for that designation."

Napoleon shrugged his shoulders.

"What about the eidetic memory, and how you seem to have an anecdote or explanation for just about everything?"

Now Illya shrugged his shoulders, he couldn't help being who he was; his capabilities were merely what fell to him. Napoleon suddenly felt foolish, and a little sorry for having put Illya in a position to defend himself. What was wrong with him? He had never felt inadequate about his ability to succeed at anything.

"I'm sorry Illya. I didn't mean to put you on the spot. You might be a genius, but more than that you're a terrific actor. I have a feeling you could play a dope as well, but it wouldn't mean you are one."

Illya was glad for Napoleon's recovery, confident they would continue to operate with the same equilibrium and efficiency as always.

He did wonder, however, what a dope was and how difficult it might be to portray one.


	2. Chapter 2: The Water's Edge

Prompts: surface, purple

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The two UNCLE agents stood at the edge of the pool, mesmerized by the sight. the surface color was purple, clear and glistening. Beneath was a layer of black, almost resembling an oil slick that had somehow been turned upside down.

"Okay Illya, what has caused this and why is the water on top purple?" Napoleon decided to just cut to the chase and let his scientifically minded partner do all the heavy lifting.

Illya thought he knew the answer to part of the mystery…

"Potassium permanganate. At least that's what it looks like from here; it's my best guess without actually analyzing it in the lab."

Napoleon wrinkled his nose, dreading a long explanation but needing to ask nonetheless.

"And what is…?"

"Potassium permanganate? It is an inorganic chemical compound resulting from the fusion of manganese dioxide and potassium carbonate. It has various uses, water filtration included, and appears purple when mixed with water. I do not know what that black mass is beneath it, however. For that we need some type of lab analysis."

Illya looked from the glistening water back to his partner.

"What? You asked. Why do you always act as though you are surprised that I know the answer to your questions?" Napoleon smiled at that. He wasn't surprised, but sometimes the Russian's wealth of information was almost amusing, a walking encyclopedia with a funny accent.

"I'm just a little bit amazed, that's all. So, any ideas about why this pool is filled with these two substances?" Knowing the formula was one thing, figuring out the mystery part of it, well that was more often Napoleon's forte´.

" For one, I imagine that Monsieur Deville needed a method for removing the muck at the bottom of the pool. The obvious choice was the potassium permanganate, although it doesn't seem to have done much good here.' He squatted down to get a closer look and then lurched backwards just in time to avoid being splashed by an upward swirl of the black goo as it propelled itself through the pristine purple water on top.

"What the…?" Napoleon reached down and grabbed Illya's shoulders, dragging him farther back, out of the reach of the black hand that seemed to stretch out towards them.

Just as quickly the black receded, causing the surface water to splash and then bubble, all of it churning as though heat had been turned on beneath it. Boiling now with large bubbles that threatened to overrun the pool itself, the two agents were backing away from it, eyes glued to the action as they quickly retreated from the threatening compound that seemed intent on apprehending them.

Suddenly, with a large popping sound and then a final splash, everything became still. As Napoleon and Illya carefully approached the pool they noticed the absence of the purple color. At the edge, looking down, the water was crystal clear.

"Okay, what was that?" Napoleon's tone was accusing as he turned to look at his partner.

"What? Why do you ask me like that? I had nothing to do with it, and I don't know any more than you do you blockhead." It was a momentary flair of tempers, quickly assuaged as each man's nerves settled. It had been extraordinary, and the mystery of it left them each slightly disturbed, and unnerved.

"I'm sorry Illya, I…"

"As am I. And the blockhead reference…''

"I know."

Illya knelt down to the pool's edge and peered into the water. There was no trace of the blackness or the intriguing purple. It was a perfect aqua hue, reflecting the color of the tiles that lined the immaculately clean pool.

"How do we write this one up?" Napoleon had nothing to take back with him, no samples or proof of anything they had just experienced. The man responsible for it was dead and no paperwork had been found.

Was it his work, or something else?

Both men would wonder about that for quite some time.


	3. Chapter 3: The Question

Prompts: olive green, booth  
Word Count: 1064 (a little longer than it should be)  
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Two men sat in a **booth** at the far end of the diner, each of them watching the door in a manner that was not readily evident to anyone casually glancing in their direction. Napoleon Solo and Illya Kuryakin were accustomed to the waiting games involved with any type of espionage, and this was no exception. They had been slowly sipping coffee from ancient mugs, the names emblazoned on them different from the sign over the door.

The decor of the establishment left quite a lot to be desired with a color scheme of orange and **olive green**. Napoleon almost felt as though he might not be able to eat food prepared in such a gauche environment, and even Illya was inclined to believe it would be one of the less impressive meals he could consume.

"Should I inquire as to the certainty of this rendezvous? We've been sitting here for over an hour." Kuryakin didn't like the feel of this meeting, it was off somehow. Normally Napoleon had those kinds of inklings, but now the Russian felt an uneasiness overwhelming him, as though mistakes were about to be made.

"I know… Illya, let's order and leave money for the meals…"

"And leave?" Illya understood. If anyone was watching, the delivery of a meal would make it seem less obvious when each of them got up to leave. At least that would be the plan.

"Yeah, something like that. You go ahead and I'll order for you. See if there's a way out the back and take a look; we may have company outside just waiting for us to make an exit. I don't want to be taken by surprise."

Illya nodded, pointing to the menu as though to make his choice, then slid out from the booth and headed towards the restroom. It was down the same corridor as the kitchen entrance, and so he easily segued into the steamy room filled with grease laden appliances and sweaty cooks. Looking quickly around at the people doing the cooking, he was glad to be skipping this meal.

At the booth, Napoleon perused the menu and hailed the harried looking waitress. At close to fifty years of age, the woman had been trying to eke out a living in this greasy spoon for longer than she cared to remember. Looking at the handsome man in the corner booth she sighed at dreams of her youth, those that would have included a man like him.

"Yessir, what'll you have?" She wished she sounded more polished, an unwitting desire to appear to be someone other than herself for this man. She wondered where the blonde had gotten off to. Oh well… They'd both be dead soon. Working for THRUSH was no piece of cake, but it was better than not working for them and finding yourself in the grave.

"Oh, hello.' Napoleon flashed a smile that made Janie wish she hadn't come to work today. It was gonna be a blood bath, she didn't figure either of these two UNCLE agents would give up easy.

"My friend is in the restroom, but he wants the number three special, and I'll have have the number five. Oh, and more coffee please, we have a long drive back to the city."

Janie took the order and smiled, something in her expression setting off alarms in Napoleon's head. As soon as she finished and had turned to head back to the counter, he slid out of the booth and made his way back towards the kitchen. Illya was already there and something told Napoleon there was more than just a missing courier to be concerned about.

Napoleon took a look out the door, his oblique glance barely noticeable. Two large black vehicles were parked in front of the diner, and one man stood sentry. He was obviously THRUSH in the way that they always were. Continuing on to the kitchen, Napoleon heard a skirmish that could only be his partner and whoever he had encountered. Bursting through the door, he dove into the battle and twirled around until he and Illya were back to back, facing their opponents.

"You have a plan I hope." Kuryakin's voice sounded dry, not a good sign in situations like this.

"I was hoping you had one. On the count of … Now!"

Both men bolted for the door, leaving their assailants nearly knocking each other over. The UNCLE agents were out and heading for their car before the THRUSH could gather their wits and follow them. Illya was in the driver's seat and gunned the engine as Napoleon shut his door. Out onto the road in record time, they were far enough ahead of the THRUSH car to pull into a used car lot that came conveniently into view.

Both men ducked down and waited a few breathless seconds. Illya finally peered over the top of the door and watched as the two THRUSH vehicles sped past. He sighed loud enough to signal to Napoleon that the coast was clear.

"Well, so much for our source. Shall we head back to Headquarters?" Napoleon knew there was nothing else to do now.

"I'm there in spirit already." Illya started the engine and pulled slowly out into traffic. There would be another day for fighting evil, but for now the task at hand was returning in one piece.

"I think we have someone we'll need to talk to when we return. I hate having to deal with traitors, don't you?" Illya nodded. There was no getting around it though, someone had led them on a merry chase and the intended outcome had been their demise.

"Where do they come from, these THRUSH plants that show up all too often?"

"I don't know, and I can't understand why they choose THRUSH. Like that waitress." Illya looked at his partner, a raised eyebrow to indicate his confusion.

"The waitress was THRUSH? She didn't look the part did she? I suppose I've become accustomed to the femme fatale types. I suppose people such as she are merely duped into it, or blackmailed… It can't be a matter of choice. I fine that difficult to fathom."

The two rode in silence after that, each of them contemplating what it was that would influence a person to work for something as evil as THRUSH.

No answers were found by either of them.


	4. Chapter 4: Out To Sea

Prompts: Raft, Pink  
Word Count: 349  
Reference to One Time  
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Illya Kuryakin and Napoleon Solo had vanquished yet another THRUSH foe, freeing a scientist and his young daughter from the tyranny of imprisonment and forced employment with the supranational entity. The four of them, agents and civilian father and child, were all enjoying a beautiful day in the home of a friend to Alexander Waverly. The staff were all still on duty while the owners vacationed on foreign shores, pleasing Napoleon and Dr. Lorenzo. Illya was less comfortable with the notion of servants at his disposal, choosing instead to fend for himself whenever possible.

At the moment he was watching Dr. Lorenzo's daughter, a precocious four year old with blond curls; she was floating on an inflatable pink raft as her father swam alongside, vigilant to guarantee her safety. Napoleon was also in the pool, his winter complexion warming to the Caribbean sun and gaining color he would flaunt when back in New York's cold weather.

Illya was lying on one of the chaises that surrounded the pool, braving the sun with suntan lotion provided by one of the house staff. She had suggested he not stay in the sun longer than twenty minutes, noting how fair he was. She also took note of the blue eyes; eyes that she thought were sad as he listened to her advice. She was watching him now and wondered at his fascination with the little girl. The blond wore a wedding band, perhaps he had family back home.

It had been two years since he last saw Marion; she had married and was now a mother. He knew the child was his, had seen her once in the cover of night as he sneaked into her room. Watching Lorenzo's little girl created a yearning in the Russian's heart that he hadn't allowed himself to recognize up until now. His and Marion's daughter would look something like the girl on the raft, all pale pink skin and blond curls.

Napoleon looked up and saw his partner staring at Libby, the doctor's daughter; he caught something in Illya's expression that escaped description.


	5. Chapter 5: Working Out

The prompts are inconformity and purple

The playing ground was not exactly level, at least not according to the rulebook to which Napoleon Solo adhered. Were he to stop the game now, however, the **inconformity** of the game and its chief architect would be thrown into something even more disturbing; of that he was certain.

Illya Kuryakin was a man whose skills and wit served him well; he also had a very bad habit of perpetuating an atmosphere of animosity among the THRUSH or whichever villainous type he found himself face to face. It was a flaw in the Russian's make-up, something that neither experience nor his partner had been able to coax him out of.

Now was a perfect example of that. The blond's face was bloody from the interrogation, his body, normally spare and pale under the best of circumstances, was now turning a tormented shade of **purple** as the blood vessels beneath the skin ruptured and gasped for repair. Illya's expression had not changed in the past hour, a feat of some merit from where the dark-haired American agent sat; he had been afforded a front row seat to the brutality, all in hopes of persuading him to spill the beans, so to speak, regarding the plot so recently plundered by the talented duo from the U.N.C.L.E.

Napoleon wasn't without some threat to his life, though the spotlight was on his partner. Behind him sat a man with a very long knife, ready to impale the UNCLE agent should he make any move to help the Russian. The situation seemed dire, but then some things looked worse than they were.

Illya had endured the pummeling and jabbing, all the while feigning much worse pain than it actually was; every time a punch was landed he pulled back his stomach muscles, a form of isometrics that was yet to be lauded for its ability to strengthen and tone the body. The bruising was out of his control, but as he closed his eyes and slumped, giving the appearance of a man not fully conscious, the 'interrogator' leaned in slightly to check on his victim. Illya spit at him, a vile act to be sure but in this case a method of disarming his tormentor. A hidden capsule in one of Kuryakin's molars contained a chemical that, when mixed with saliva became a powerful knock-out drug. It took considerable precision on the part of the person using it in order to not be affected by it himself.

Napoleon took the opportunity and, before the knife wielding THRUSH could react, turned and knocked him in the head with his cuffed hands. The effect of the metal along with a curled fist was more than enough to put him out.

Illya was scrambling to undo his bonds, feeling some effect from the drug he had spat out. Napoleon was inside helping within seconds.

"I think I must have absorbed some.. of … Oh Napoleon, I do not …" Without finishing the sentence the Russian was down, leaving Napoleon to carry out his friend, slung over his shoulder like a sack of flour.

Fortunately, only those two guards had been left to handle the supposedly vanquished UNCLE agents. Napoleon was glad that THRUSH never seemed to learn their lessons regarding the ability of Waverly's men to bounce back from a bad situation. Hauling Illya out had slowed down the American only slightly, and as he emerged from the low slung building that had housed the aspiring satrapy, a familiar car was pulling into the dusty lane that fronted it.

"Hi Ho there fellas, need a lift?" Mark Slate doffed his cap like a chauffeur, and Napoleon thought he had never been so glad to hear a British accent. The two men stuffed Illya into the back seat of the little Mini-Cooper, a car that Mark had insisted on having flown to the States on a military transport. Something about all the Beatles driving one and by jove he would have his as well… _Something like that._

"Thanks Mark, you are once again here just in the nick of time." Mark smiled, pulling down the front of his ever present corduroy hat.

"My pleasure Napoleon. Your homing signal finally kicked in and so here I am. Illya looks a little worse for wear. I suppose that is merely par for the course though, eh?"

Napoleon thought about that, sometimes it did seem as though his partner caught the brunt of bad treatment, although he could present a list of his own that would rival that record.

"Yeah, good thing we're not competitive, I might suspect him of doing it on purpose." Both men smiled at that, but deep down, each of them knew it didn't take a competitive nature to find the harsh end of a THRUSH stick.

Illya grunted and tried to sit up.

"I am awake, and I assure you none of this is purposeful. I do believe my abs are becoming a little better defined however. As they say, no pain no gain."

That brought a guffaw from the other two. Right… a Russian exercise regimen.

Come to think of it… Nah.


	6. Chapter 6: Serendipity Calling

Prompts: Torrent, Forest Green  
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The two men who braved the **torrent** of rain and wind looked as though they might drop to the ground at any minute. The taller of the two was hunched over and seemed to be listing to one side, like a boat taking on water. The blond, hair plastered to his head like a cap of yellow icing, trudged along at a steady pace that belied the conditions.

Looking ahead they each saw their deliverance from the storm; a sturdy looking cabin situated among the pine trees appeared empty, but welcoming nonetheless.

Napoleon yelled above the howling wind at his partner.

"Illya, up ahead…" The Russian tried to reply but was silenced by the rain that pelted onto his face. Rather than swallow it he merely upped his cadence, surging ahead of Solo and onto the sheltering porch.

Napoleon was only a step or two behind as he set foot onto the sturdy boards, straightening up at last from his defensive posture against the wind.

"Better. Now, who's doing the honor of breaking into this little home away from home?"

Illya was already at work, satisfied when the snick of the lock releasing assured him that they were almost rescued from the cold and wet of the storm.

Slivers of moonlight sneaked into the little cabin, illuminating an interior that was spartan by most standards, but welcome in any condition to the two UNCLE agents. Napoleon spied a fireplace, blessedly supplied with a stack of wood just waiting to be put to its purpose. He reached for the long matches that were kept in a tall brass urn, thankful that some people maintained places like this, unaware that they were giving aid to men whose lives depended on serendipity as much as careful planning.

"There… we'll have a fire in no time." Illya returned from his examination of the cabin in time to see his partner squatting next to the fireplace as he placed some kindling beneath two large pieces of wood.

"There is another room in the back, storage from what I can see of it. This room appears to be all there is otherwise. There is a kitchen area over there…' Illya pointed towards the right side of the room, indicating where the stove and pantry were located.

"This must a hunting cabin, appropriate given the likelihood that we are still being pursued."

Napoleon thought about that, keenly aware of the pain endured during the brief visit in the satrapy from which they had escaped.

"Hopefully the rain has washed away the trail we were on. I wouldn't want to encounter anyone else tonight, I'm …"

"Pooped. I am pooped." Illya used that term often, a source of amusement to his American partner.

"Is that a Russian term, ILlya?" The blond smiled, he couldn't explain why that word so accurately defined how he felt at times.

"Yes, and like so many Russian words it is much more expressive than English."

Napoleon started to say something but stopped himself. He was pooped too, and a good night's sleep might conceivably be had in this cabin. Maybe.

The partners traded off sleeping and watching for any approaching THRUSH. By morning each man had enjoyed a few hours of sleep and welcomed the sunrise like a long lost friend. The rain had ceased, the wind no longer blew, and upon closer examination the pantry yielded the makings of a decent meal.

"Beans for breakfast? I don't think I've ever had that before." Napoleon scrunched up his nose at first, but his stomach told him he'd eat whatever was put in front of him.

"The British are quite fond of beans… Heinz if I recall. Beans and toast for breakfast is not uncommon. We don't have bread but… Ah! Here is something, soda crackers according to the box." Illya proceeded to prepare the meal while Napoleon stoked the fire and added more logs. If THRUSH were in the woods they would no doubt see smoke, but perhaps they weren't there after all.

"I can understand why the crayon box has a color called **Forest Green, i** t's a color all its own…" Napoleon seemed mesmerized by the trees surrounding the cabin.

"It is actually quite beautiful here. If we weren't in the process of escaping from THRUSH I would enjoy being here a few days. All right, here's breakfast."

The two sat and enjoyed the food, relishing each little bean for the goodness that it was. Soon they would be back in New York, safe until the next mission. For now, a cabin in the woods and a stash of beans and crackers was as good as it got.

Serendipity indeed.


	7. Chapter 7: A Staggering Event

Prompts: Stagger and Black

Two men sat on a park bench, their lunches now a thing of the past as they appeared to anyone looking as though simply enjoying the day, in spite of the weather. Across from them a man had been walking up and down in front of a solitary building.

"How do you like that swagger? Poor fellow seems a bit out of his element if you ask me." Mark Slate was busy doing nothing much as he and Illya Kuryakin continued to observe some activity across from their position on a park bench. It was cold, and neither man had seen anything that looked remotely dangerous or THRUSH-like.

"I think it's more of a stagger than a swagger. Look at him, he can barely stand upright." Illya thought he could probably just touch the fellow and he would topple over. Mark shook his head.

"Illya, he is not staggering. That is a definite swagger, look at his shoulders." Mark was less convinced than he sounded, but sometimes it was worth a few words to get the better of the Russian.

"I will wager you that he is drunk and nearly ready to pass out. The attempt he is making to walk is merely to try and camoflage his inebriated state. I will gladly cross the street and demonstrate." Mark was shocked; Illya would certainly not consider blowing their very meager cover with such a callous act.

"You have a black heart, Kuryakin. Imagine, taking advantage of the poor soul, not to mention taking money from me." Mark wondered how long, or how far, this would go. Kuryakin was known to take chances, and now he was poised to turn this surveillance into a melee over what? Over a drunk who had prompted a debate over staggering vs. swaggering.

Illya turned to the less adventuresom British agent and let go with a mischieveous smile that sent a pang of remorse through Mark's skull.

"You wouldn't. Would you? Oh no, Illya, don't do it. We'll both get our backsides busted by the Old Man if you ..." But it was too late. The blond launched himself up from their park bench and set out across the street, dodging cars and irritating taxi drivers. As he neared the man whose way had been slow and decidedly unsteady, Illya reached out to touch him, but also to take a better look in the window of the building they had been monitoring all day long.

It didn't take long for the door to open, and as it did two men came into view. Mark was up and ready immediately, crossing the street to join Illya as they each darted a man, causing the one they had been observing to spring into action. Suddenly, and without warning, he straightened up and produced a gun.

"That's it, I hope you two had fun because from here on in it's nothing but ..." Mark punched him in the jaw, sending the man staggering backwards before landing in a heap amidst an array of trash cans and boxes.

"Yes, definitely not a swagger." Illya couldn't resist adding that before motioning towards the door. When the two agents entered it was empty, the only signs of habitation a collection of files and a small communication console.

"Hmmm... it looks as though this was some sort of temporary headquarters. Not much of a staff, a lookout who needed a better cover than walking up and down in front of the doorway... What do you think, Illya?" As he looked around the room the Russian agent was unimpressed with its contents, which made him wonder what had really gone on here.

"Check the other doors...' He indicated the two on either side of the room, "but be careful. I think there's more behind this room."

Mark did as instructed, carefully turning the knob of one door as Illya did the same with the other. Each of them crept into darkened rooms, their senses on high alert.

"Nothing. How about you?" Slate was turning towards Illya when suddenly the blond shouted at him to run.

"Out, now!" They bolted for the front door, each aware of a buzzing sound behind them. In the street and still running, they were blown forward as the room blew, taking the rest of the building with it.

Raising himself up from the debris and dust, Mark looked around incredulously, his unformed question leaving a puzzled expression on his face.

"It was a trap. This entire thing was a ruse to get UNCLE's attention for nothing more than an easy way to kill our agents." That made Illya mad, at himself and at THRUSH. He should have known something was amiss, if for no other reason than the tiresome activities of the man who had piqued his interest.

"You couldn't have known, mate. And besides, we were sent here because someone else..."

"Tipped us off..." Illya reached into his pocket and pulled out the silver pen-like communicator.

"Open Channel D, Kuryakin here."

"Mr. Kuryakin, what have you found out?" Mr. Waverly's voice filled the other end.

"Sir, it was a trap, a ruse set up to entice us to go in and ... be blown apart. Mr. Slate and I made it out, but just barely."

Now there was only silence as Waverly pondered the situation.

"Very well, Mr. Kuryakin. You and Mr. Slate return to Headquarters, I believe I know what to do about this. Waverly out."

Mark was frowning at the quick conversation.

"That's it then? We just go back?" Illya nodded. He thought he knew what was going to happen next.

:~~~~:

By the time Kuryakin and Slate had cleaned up and were seated at the big conference table in Waverly's office, Napoleon Solo was also present. He had been tasked with the responsibility to apprehend the person responsible for the suspicious 'tip' about the THRUSH location. Mr. Waverly was the first to speak, as usual...

"Gentlemen, you all seem to be reasonably in tact. Mr. Solo, please report.

Napoleon cleared his throat before beginning, cutting a look at his partner and then at Mark.

"Sir, the person responsible for that so-called tip was Matthew Laudner, a Section III agent who, it now seems, has been a THRUSH plant from the beginning. His personnel records are being gone over with the proverbial fine tooth comb. If there's anything overt in there to identify his THRUSH associations we will find it. He submitted the information originally to his section chief, Lance Coombs, who then passed it on to Section II via standard procedures. We are confident that Mr. Coombs is not involved in any way."

Illya and Mark both retained impassive expressions, as though the thought of one of their own being a THRUSH mole didn't make thier blood run cold.

"What will happen to Matt? He's always been a friendly bloke, I would never have taken him for a mole." Mark thought back to his interactions with the man and couldn't come up with any signals that might have been helpful in spotting his true intentions.

Napoleon recognized the discomfort involved in this type of thing; discovering that one of their personnel worked for the other side was always difficult to swallow. Illya alone remained silent. He had seen too many people herded off to an uncertain future after being targeted as a traitor to the state. He didn't doubt that it was true, but maintained his silence nonetheless.

"Very well then, this incident will be considered closed for now." Waverly did not answer Mark's question, nor did he intend to. What went on beyond the event of a traitorous act was best left unknown. Bad business, all of it.

Napoleon caught up to his partner as the trio exited Waverly's office.

"Are you okay Illya? You seemed very somber in there." Illya stopped to turn and face his partner.

"I am slightly bruised by the explosion, if that is what you mean." He knew better, but his response would be enough to tell Napoleon that none of his questions would be answered.

"Okay... nothing more damaging than that?" He'd known Illya long enough to read his cryptic messages in almost any form.

Illya turned again to walk towards the elevator, Napoleon at his side.


	8. Chapter 8: Sliding

Prompts: orange, slide

"What are you eating?" Napoleon was slurping down the last of a frozen confection that Emily, a secretary from Translations, had insisted he try. The cafeteria was full of employees and many of them were enjoying the same treat, a new feature from the dessert tray.

"It's called a Dreamsicle, made from vanilla ice cream and **orange** sherbert. You ought to have one."

Illya considered it, then declined. Something about it ...

"Perhaps another day. I prefer my coffee and apple pie. Isn't it rather chilly to be eating ice cream?" Why was everyone eating a cold item on such a blustery day?

Napoleon detected something off, something a little melancholic in his partner's demeanor. Not that coffee and apple pie was a bad thing, but refusing to try the Dreamsicle was indicative of something else.

"Anything wrong Illya? You seem a little... maybe a little down?" Autumn had come in with a gust of wind and cooler temperatures than normal. Illya's response to weather was often related to whatever memories the man possessed, none of which he shared willingly unless under the influence of a substantial amount of vodka.

Napoleon's memories were not all happy either, but his natural ebullience seemed to offset whatever difficulties his life had presented to him early on. The Russian was not quite so well endowed with a predisposition to happiness. He now considered the question posed by his friend, careful to respond without delving too deeply into the past. His past.

"'We did not have citrus in Russia, not among the general population. I suppose there were those who were fortunate, or powerful enough to obtain delicacies such as fruit. Something about eating an artificial form of it is... I cannot explain it, Napoleon. I **slide** from East to West and back again, and sometimes it is difficult for me to recognize myself amidst so much that is foreign to me, to my upbringing." The blue eyes, deep and sad, searched his friend for some type of understanding.

"And you get all of that from an ice cream confection? Illya... Tovarisch, it's all right to enjoy your life here, to indulge a little. The people back in Russia won't be any better off for your denying yourself something as innocent as orange sherbert." Napoleon had hit the proverbial nail on the head. Illya sometimes battled with a type of survivor's guilt at having escaped the tyranny of his country's current leaders. Not everyone was so fortunate, or so gifted. His natural abilities, superior in so many ways, had afforded him this rare opportunity; never mind the fact that his life was in peril a great deal of the time.

"Thank you, my friend. Once again you added perspective to my outlook. Just the same, I shall eat my pie for now. Perhaps when the weather is warm again I shall try your ... um, Dreamsicle." That shy smile crossed the blond's face, a momentary lowering of the learned defences.

Napoleon had to wonder at the life of his partner, and the impact of orange sherbert on a man who regularly faced down death.

"Okay Illya. Enjoy your pie. I take it you had apples?"

Illya laughed at that as he dug into his pie.


	9. Chapter 9: Do Tell

The Prompts: Propel, Sky Blue

:~~~~~:~~~~~:~~~~~:~~~~~:~~~~~:

"Who got the promotion? Was it Solo?"

A crowd of UNCLE employees were huddled together trying to hear the latest development regarding the man who would be replacing Vince Weatherly, the outgoing Chief Enforcement Agent.

"I hope it's Mr. Solo, he's the one who's most qualified." A pretty redhead let the words ooze out of her ruby red lips. She could only hope that Mr. Solo would hear that she was one of his biggest fans. Another woman, blonde and petite, sneered at the comment.

"Oh Betty, you wouldn't know best qualified if it came up and smacked you on the rear."

That brought a chuckle from several of the other people standing nearby.

"I think _that's what she means_ by best qualified." Betty just smiled. It was true and she didn't care who thought it.

Someone shushed the comments as he spotted the man in question enter the cafeteria.

"Congratulations Mr. Solo, we just heard the good news." Dennis Morton from Section V was grinning from ear to ear. He'd just collected ten dollars in the betting pool.

"How much was I worth Dennis?" Napoleon Solo took it all in stride, he was pleased with his promotion and knew this was the stuff of office gossip and speculation.

"Ten bucks and bragging rights!" Dennis waived the bill overhead while the loser frowned through his disappointment.

The crowd dispersed and separated to their various tables, still in groups but now spread out in the large dining area. When a slender blond man walked through the double doors a new buzz went up among some of the spectators.

Illya Kuryakin had also been promoted, taking the Number Two spot vacated by his partner Napoleon. Between the two of them, they were the highest ranking agents in the Northwest Region, something that rankled a few of the people whose opinion of Russians in general, and Kuryakin in particular, was less than complimentary.

"He's certainly been ** _propelled_** through the ranks of UNCLE. Sort of makes you wonder about the deal struck by the Kremlin in order to get one of their men into the Command." Not everyone in UNCLE shared the vision of its chief architect, Alexander Waverly. Personal opinions were not always in line with the philosophy of peaceful co-existence among all nations, something that Waverly disdained but often had to accept as the downside of large assemblies of personnel. As long as it didn't affect the work, that was all he could hope for sometimes.

Betty was within hearing of the rude comment made about the blond.

"Oh get off it Harry. No one with eyes like that could be anything but good." She sighed as the memory of one chance encounter with Kuryakin came to mind. **_Sky blue_** , she wistfully recalled, was the color of his eyes.

At their corner table, Napoleon and Illya sat down to share a cup of coffee before heading into a meeting with Mr. Waverly. Napoleon was aware of the buzz in the room, the speculation and rumors that would start here.

"I think they're talking about you now, whether or not you'll eventually take my place."

Illya smiled, that coy and undecipherable smile that made the women swoon and the men feel threatened. Napoleon still marveled at the subtlety of his partner's expressions and the powerful effect that they had on people, both friend and foe.

"I suppose any group of people must talk about something, although I would prefer that it not be about me. Perhaps someone more interesting will come along soon, someone from China."

Napoleon snickered at that. Then again...


	10. Chapter 10: Lady In Waiting

Prompts: Millinery, grey  
Words: 940  
:~~~~~:~~~~~:~~~~~:~~~~~:

"I think it looks quite fetching on you, and the color is very posh."

Napoleon was fairly seething at the indignation of this current assignment. He had enjoyed a laugh at Illya's expense when the Russian was required to dress like an old woman a few months earlier, but this…

"I suppose you picked out this little millinery delight." The brunet did look good in the color his partner had chosen, it set off of his eyes. At least that's what Illya told him, and April Dancer was standing by nodding her head. Conspirators.

"Really darling, grey is your color. I mean you wear it all of the time."

"Oh, and wait until you see the dress I picked out, you'll be the envy of every woman at this event."

That last was too much for Illya and April, they doubled over in laughter as visions of Napoleon dressed as Lady Eva Van Eaton swirled in their devious minds. This was definitely payback, especially for Kuryakin.

The hat was one of those numbers with the net veil that covered a woman's, _or a man's_ face. The emphasis would be on the total silhouette rather than individual elements of Napoleon's attire. The job would have gone to April but she was currently nursing a broken wrist and the risk would be too great should trouble erupt. Now it fell to her superior to make an appearance as the fictional Lady Eva.

"Next time it's you Kuryakin. You're smaller than I am anyway, you should be doing this."

Raised eyebrows met that remark, reminding Napoleon than in spite of his smaller stature, the Russian was not to be taken lightly. He would avoid a confrontation… this time.

"Fine, I know you're posing as the wait staff. Come to think of it, that really isn't something to which I'm suited."

That brought more laughter from the other two agents.

''I think I'm quite satisfied playing waiter to your Ladyship. The Baron is a bit of a ladies man, likes a different woman in his bed every night. I believe a few people have dubbed him _Baron Von Tramp._ ' April hiccuped a laugh at the play on names.

''Oh, don't forget to let the Baron Rinklesburg kiss you on both cheeks, like this…' Illya demonstrated on a very willing April, the brush of his lips against her cheeks brought a flash of memory from a tryst not yet forgotten.

"He might try for more but I trust you will maneuver your way out of it." Napoleon snarled a little at his partner.

"I believe I can handle the baron, now just let me finish with the make-up artist and I'll see you there. Oh, before you go, just remember who will be writing up the report on this. I think pulling seniority on this is only fair."

Illya nodded thoughtfully, he was used to writing the reports so one more mattered very little to him at this point.

"I shall be happy to write this report, and I believe a photograph will also be in order. You know, just for the record. Perhaps we call this one the Lady and the Tramp Affair."

Illya and April turned and left before Napoleon could respond . He looked at his reflection in the floor to ceiling mirror, not entirely unimpressed by what he saw, and then it hit him… Lady and the Tramp.

He laughed all the way to the event, and when the Baron tried to kiss Napoleon, he knocked him out with a left hook. Not before he got what he came for however, because being a lady, he had discreetly plucked the microdot from the baron's lapel without even smudging his make up.

When the time came for Illya to type up the report, his curiosity was piqued slightly by the cheery mood of his partner. Last he had seen Napoleon his friend was anxious to get home and change out of his disguise.

"So, you seem in a very good mood today. Is it too much to ask what brought this on?" Napoleon had to smile at that, and the memory of his night.

"Oh, I thought I was always in a good mood. But, since you ask… then again, perhaps not. Gentlemen don't kiss and tell." Now the smile broadened to one worthy of a Cheshire in a tree.

"What? Do you mean to tell me that you managed to go home, change clothes and still…?" Napoleon was smug, not admitting to anything but obviously pleased with himself.

"I don't know what to tell you Illya, some women like a man who isn't afraid to express himself in unusual ways." Kuryakin was speechless. Almost speechless.

"Who? Someone at the party? I only saw you… no…" Another nod of the head.

"It seems the Baroness was not sorry to see her husband, from whom she is legally separated, knocked onto the floor by a woman. When she followed me to the foyer and turned me around for a better look, well…"

"Unbelievable. I think you could find a willing woman in a foxhole. I suppose you are unfamiliar with the phrase 'elegance is refusal'."

That gave Napoleon pause, but only momentarily.

"That is Coco Chanel, and she meant we shouldn't over burden ourselves with too much besides the basics. I figure a beautiful woman who needs my company is basic enough, and when we, um… get down to it, we're as unadorned as it comes."

"Refusal, Napoleon, refusal!"

Napoleon laughed as he walked out of the office and down the corridor. _Refusal is right, tovarisch, and I refuse to turn away women._

 _touché_


	11. Chapter 11: Ups and Downs

The room was full of the clacking of keyboards as twenty women went about the business of typing reports, documenting files and more or less keeping the United Network Command for Law and Enforcement running smoothly. The agents had their parts to play, the secretaries the task of making it all part of the organization's official record.

White against the grey of walls and machines, paper rolled from inside the IBM Selectric as fingers moved with precision across the keyboards, causing the room to sound like tiny bits of hail pelting a tin roof.

Illya Kuryakin and Napoleon Solo walked into this room with intention, their eyes scanning the assortment of beehives and flips as they looked for the one woman whose help they needed.

"There she is, over there…" Illya pointed towards a blonde, her attention riveted to the documents beside the sleek typewriter.

Napoleon nodded and then walked to the woman his partner had indicated. She was thumbing through a phone index, probably trying to reach the agent whose report she was working on. Intent on her task, the woman was aware of Napoleon only after he tapped her on the shoulder.

Betsy Cummings wasn't a jumpy person by nature, but the feel of someone's hand on her shoulder startled her, eliciting something short of cursing as she hit a wrong key that would necessitate using the white out product in her drawer.

"I'm sorry Miss Cummings, I didn't mean to startle you."

Betsy looked up into the face of Mr. Solo, a man she had only heard about and seen periodically. The fact that he was in the report she worked on now was unnerving.

 _What could he possibly want from her?_ The question was immediate and a little bit frightening.

"Mr. Solo? Umm…what can I do for you, sir?" Was her heart beating a little faster? Suddenly a dull roar filled her head, and for the life of her Betsy couldn't understand why.

"Are you all right Betsy, you look…"

Too late. Betsy Cummings passed out cold, falling gracelessly from her chair as Napoleon tried without success to catch her before she hit the floor.

"I see you've managed to get another woman to fall at your feet." The droll delivery was met with a smirk. Illya could be so irritating at times.

"I didn't even get to introduce myself."

One of the other woman had already called Medical and several others were attending to their co-worker. Illya had knelt down to check her pulse while Napoleon answered accusatory looks with the most charming smile he could muster, under the circumstances.

Finally one of the women spoke up.

"What did you do to her Mr. Solo? Betsy is such a nice girl, you really shouldn't have upset her like that." A silent chorus of nodding heads mixed with clucking tongues (or was that merely in his imagination?), were all in agreement with their spokeswoman.

"I didn't do anything ladies, I didn't even get to say anything…( sigh …). Does she have any medical conditions?" This time the heads were shaking to indicate 'no', but the looks were still less warm than Napoleon was accustomed to seeing on the females in UNCLE.

Illya was speaking with the med tech who had shown up with a gurney, and then with Miss Cummings as she began to come around. He patted her hand and said something to which she smiled and, if Napoleon was seeing clearly, the woman blushed.

The Russian agent came back to where Napoleon was fending off several cold shoulders and announced that Betsy was going to be fine. She just had a little anxiety when she saw Napoleon and then …

"So I made her faint? I didn't do anything, why should she faint just because I tapped her on the shoulder?" Napoleon was annoyed now, the idea of women dropping in a cold heap to the floor just because he walked into a room. What was that all about anyway?

"Betsy, Miss Cummings… was typing a file that chronicled your last mission alongside Agent Dave Devine; you remember that one, after I was laid up in Medical due to some THRUSH toxins. Anyway, she was at the part where you applied a pressure point assault on some poor fellow's collarbone and, well …"

Napoleon was floored.

"She thought I'd do that to her? Surely you're kidding."

Illya smiled, that small smile that said so much and betrayed so little.

"Not really, you just surprised and then it was all… she couldn't help herself.' Kuryakin was still smiling, almost laughing.

"I suppose you just have a way with women, Napoleon."

"Just tell me she's going to be all right. Oh, wait… you did that already. Fine, I'll send her flowers and take her out to dinner." That made Illya's eyebrows raise in a quizzical expression that elicited more questions from his partner.

"What? Is she afraid to go out with me?"

''No, it's just that, well… You may have to wait."

Suspicions were mounting.

"And why is that, O Partner Mine? I think I smell a rat, a Russian rat."

"Sorry my friend, but Betsy is having dinner with me tonight. I seem to have a calming effect on her that, well… you know."

Illya turned and walked back out into the corridor, anxious to make a dinner reservation for the evening ahead. Betsy Cummings was a very pretty girl, and he was confident the evening would be very pleasant indeed.

As for Napoleon, it seemed at least one of the secretaries had been watching very carefully and, when Mr. Kuryakin left she made her way over to where Napoleon still stood.

"Um, Mr. Solo?" He turned to see a beautiful brunette with curves that would shame the Autobahn.

"Oh, yes… _may I help you ?_ "

I guess you can pretty well imagine how the rest of this story goes.


	12. Chapter 12: The Vessel With The Pestle

The old mill was a relic from past centuries, a stark reminder that time would ravage all things, eventually. As Illya Kuryakin looked around the grounds he was aware that his partner Napoleon was watching him.

"What? You know it would go faster if you also searched for our missing vessel." The Russian had an uneasy feeling, an irrational uneasiness that was causing his words to be clipped and harsh.

"The vessel… ' Napoleon looked skyward as he considered something. Illya continued to look tense.

"The pellet with the poison's in the vessel with the pestle."

"What on earth are you talking about now?'

Napoleon smiled at the memory of one of his favorite films.

"The pellet with the poison's in the vessel with the pestle. The chalice from the palace holds the brew that is true." He had remembered it, the reward of seeing the iconic film repeatedly one afternoon, staying in the shadows and re-entering the theater until the last showing. It was a pleasant memory to have in this forgotten place.

Illya was fairly fuming now, his patience at an end at such nonsense.

"I do not have any idea what you are going on about, and we still do not have the… the vessel." He spat out the word like something bad in his mouth. Napoleon could be so annoying.

"Wait a minute. Perhaps your nonsense is worth something after all." He retraced his steps back to where he had seen an old headstone. The monument had been in this place for centuries, but clearly engraved on it was the image of a drinking vessel, a goblet.

Napoleon followed his irascible partner towards the old stone marker and sure enough, there it was. He had a bad feeling about what might come next.

"Are you telling me we're going to have to …?"

"Dig up this grave… yes, I think perhaps we will." The Russian went to his backpack and pulled out a small shovel that unfolded to a usable length. He removed his jacket and with one last long look at Napoleon, began digging.

It was at least thirty minutes before something solid was found. Both men began to dig with their hands until they saw the lid of the ancient coffin. They both took deep breaths before lifting the lid, surprised that it held no bones or human remains, only the goblet they had been searching for.

"Well I'll be…' Napoleon whistled at the find, happy that it wasn't a grisly sight after all.

"Yes, well… I believe we will both be, or something to that effect." Illya reached in and retrieved the prized object, then placed it in the backpack from which he'd gotten the shovel.

"Okay then, I guess that's that." Illya nodded. No THRUSH trying to steal it, no innocents to protect. All in all the day had gone very well. Suddenly the scene around him made the Russian feel at ease, peaceful almost for its beauty.

"Very well then, shall we head back to the hotel and grab our things? I'm ready to go home." Napoleon had a date the next night that he didn't want to miss. Ending this without complication was making for a nice prelude to dinner with Cheri Lane.

"Yes, let us go quickly. I am also ready to be back in New York."

Nothing special was calling him home, but it was calling nonetheless.


	13. Chapter 13: An Inconvenient Affair

The **wind** was howling like a banshee and the air felt hot against the skin of two UNCLE agents. Strapped down to boards with strips of leather, their nakedness was just one of the discomforts being endured.

It had started with a simple surveillance of a warehouse in San Diego, California. It wasn't a place they'd normally find themselves, the West Coast being in the domain primarily of the Los Angeles offices of the United Network Command for Law and Enforcement. Sometimes the odd detail will send an agent into parts unknown and, in this case, it had been to Balboa Park. That was not where they were currently, however, something that Illya Kuryakin was sure to remark on more than once, should they get out of this predicament alive.

"Can you reach anything useful Napoleon? I see a rasp on top of that table, if you can somehow…"

"I can't. Can you wiggle out of the bindings? You're always doing some kind of gyrating, escape kind of … What?"

Illya was looking at his partner with the piercing glare he used on THRUSH interrogators.

"Gyrating? Really Napoleon?" As he was rebutting the notion of such things the slender Russian did somehow manage to slither out of the crudely assembled prison, heading first for his clothing that hung on a chair back, and to look for his gun and communicator. The pen like instrument was broken into two pieces. Fixing it would be a problem.

"Oh, hello… Have you forgotten something? Illya!" Napoleon still lay prone atop the plywood, his head turning from side to side as he attempted to keep track of his partner.

"Ouch! I think I have a splinter. Illya, I apologize for the gyrating remark. Now, please… get me off of this… this plank of wood."

A smirk of satisfaction shone on the blond's face.

"Fine, but I would appreciate it if you would not describe my obvious skills in escape methods in such unflattering terms. I find it offensive, on a professional level." Napoleon couldn't tell if Illya was kidding or not, but he vowed to not offend the sensitive Slav any more than necessary.

"Really Illya, you are an intemperate fellow, always complaining about … Never mind." The leather straps were all but cut through as the last words petered out of the CEA's mouth. Better to stay on the good side of Illya Kuryakin.

Finally dressed and ready to leave the woebegone place of their imprisonment, Solo and Kuryakin emerged into the desert landscape only to find that they were completely and utterly abandoned, with not a single vehicle in sight.

"Now what?" Illya looked to his partner, the one with the plan. The one who was supposed to have the plan.

"I … I guess we call for a pick up and hope someone hears us."

"My communicator is broken. Did you locate yours?"

"No."

"Walk?"

"Apparently."

And so the two set off on foot into the **orange** hues of a desert sunrise, neither prepared for what they would encounter next.


	14. Chapter 14: Distress Signals

The woman at the counter seemed to be annoyed with the girl behind it; obviously the customer was having issues with the product she was being shown.

"I want crimson red, that's what I told you already. You must have something, some brand, that is truly crimson."

The girl looked frustrated with her irate customer. Crimson is red, and she had already shown the woman several shades of red lipstick.

"No, no… crimson red is different. It's… it's like blood red. Don't you have something that looks like blood?"

That did it. The cosmetics clerk took out every tray of lipstick inside the cabinet and put them down on top of the counter.

"Here, you see here all of the shades and all of the reds among the shades. Are any of these going to do the job?"

It was unseemly, would probably get her fired, but the girl had endured enough. Her supervisor thought so as well, and from the course of this conversation it was clear that her employee had done everything in her power to help this customer. Approaching the distressed girl, Mrs. Wagner, the department manager tried her hand at speaking with the troublesome customer.

"May I help you, miss? I am the manager, and perhaps you would prefer for me to select the color." It seemed reasonable, and for a moment the woman stopped her agitated behavior.

"I… I … It's crimson. The color I need is crimson, not rose or deep wine or … just crimson." Why was it so difficult to just give her the correct color? The nervousness returned, as though the clock were ticking against the task of obtaining a crimson colored lipstick.

Mrs. Wagner looked to her young employee and gave a signal indicating she should call for security. The woman at the counter was near to hysteria now, she needed to be removed from the sales floor.

From across the aisle two men appeared, one of them dark and immaculately attired in a smart looking suit that had not come off the rack. The other was smaller in stature, blond and decidedly European if his hair and turtleneck were to be trusted as fashion markers.

They spotted the woman at the cosmetics counter and moved towards her, not wishing to upset her. She had already caused some trouble by the looks of it, the other two women behind the counter had wary expressions that were highlighted by the array of pretty boxes and bottles surrounding them. One of them appeared to be trying to assuage in some way the emotions of their target.

Illya Kuryakin walked around the counter so that he would come upon this trio from the opposite side of his partner, Napoleon Solo. Two agents of the U.N.C.L.E., these men had been trailing this woman since she bolted from the storefront of a criminal organization currently being scrutinized by the Command. Looking at the woman now it was obvious she was in some sort of distress, and as Napoleon neared the counter he could hear her repeating 'crimson', a desperate plea rather than a shopper's request. Her hair was askew, no longer in the prim French Twist she had started out with. Strands of hair had become loose and hung haphazardly around her face. Her eyes were beginning to well with tears as her plea for the crimson lipstick went unanswered.

"Ma'am, we've shown you every color we have here, and the red shades are all…" The distraught woman whose search for crimson had brought her here suddenly shrieked as she sank to her knees, no longer able to withstand the terror of whatever had driven her here. Napoleon was there to catch her before she collapsed entirely, Illya close by as he motioned the other women away.

"Crimson, I only want crimson… They're going to kill me if I don't find it…" she continued to wail, an inconsolable cry over the elusive shade.

"Illya, we need to …" Kuryakin nodded knowingly and without being observed he shot the woman with a sleep dart. She collapsed into Napoleon's arms and he scooped her up, carrying her past the cosmetics counter, down the main aisle of the store and out onto the sidewalk. Illya was calling in their location, requesting a pick up in front of the big department store.

Two hours later April Dancer woke up in Medical, her head throbbing from the combination of drugs she had been subjected to. Her memory of the ordeal was sketchy, but in her mind she was certain the color red… No, not red. Crimson. She was sure that was important.

Mark Slate sat in a chair, his arm in a sling as a result of being shot trying to protect his partner. April had been abducted in spite of his efforts, interrogated with the use of truth serums and something else; the concoction that had her begging for crimson lipstick had been a trial version of something intended to be used against an entire population to create a type of hysteria that would respond to suggestion. April's task had been to find a crimson lipstick under threat of death should she fail.

Napoleon and Illya peeked in before entering, seeing that April was sitting up now and awake.

"Hello beautiful, how are you feeling?" Count on Solo to brighten up the day with a compliment.

"I'm pretty good … um, I think. Did I sort of go a little crazy? I seem to remember a scene inside Macy's." Her auburn hair was remarkably smooth now and Illya noted that she seemed none the worse for her ordeal. He was grateful for that and silently sighed at that realization.

"Did you shut down that place, those people? Was it THRUSH?" April's questions would all be answered, but for now it was enough to know that the thugs who doped her were out of business. They were small time, not part of THRUSH.

"Just get some rest and we'll fill you in on the entire operation once the doctors say you have clearance for light duty. Call us if you need anything." Napoleon leaned in and kissed her on the cheek while Mark observed from his chair. Illya merely nodded. He would speak to April later, in private, and she knew instinctively not to expect more from him right now.

Mark decided to join the other two men and stretch his legs a bit. The three walked in silence for awhile before the British agent finally spoke.

"I don't want to go through something like that again. If anything had happened to her…" He stopped short, the other two in silent agreement to his sentiments.

April would be fine, of that they were sure. Something made them each feel as though she needed protection, in spite of her abilities and talents as an agent. It was going to take time before these men could be cavalier about their feelings for the girl from UNCLE.


	15. Chapter 15: Slip Slidin' Away

The last thing he remembered was a sound, like… fizzzzzzz… fizz… fizzy… Definitely something that made his tongue vibrate when he tried to pronounce. He was trying it now, and judging by the look on Illya's face it wasn't turning out as he had heard it in his head.

"Napoleon, please stop doing that. I cannot tell if you are trying to communicate or have simply lost your mind entirely. In either case my head hurts and you need to be quiet."

"Where are we? I can't remember anything except that noise, the…"

"Do not make that noise! Please, I beg of you."

Now that Napoleon looked a little closer he could see that one side of his partner's face was turning a peculiar shade of blue. That fizzing noise in his head must be what he heard before... an explosion? Why couldn't he remember?

"Are you hurt? I mean I see bruising but…' The blond head shook a negative response, but in so doing it was obvious that something hurt, somewhere.

"Yeah, you're hurt all right. Where is it? Ribs, arms,..?"

Illya attempted to stand up but instead yelped out in pain and collapsed back onto the floor. It didn't help that beneath them the flooring appeared to be stainless steel; silver and slick, making it difficult to maneuver considering their shoes had been removed. They were both dressed in white overalls, making Illya appear more pale than usual against the steel background. Napoleon's dark hair stood out in all of the colorless surroundings, an odd contrast in a peculiar situation.

"I think my wrist is broken, judging by how that felt." Illya was cradling his right wrist, a grimace of pain still evident.

"Okay, let's move more slowly and see if we can't get out of here." Napoleon managed to stand up and then gingerly took hold of his partner's arm, unsure if anything else might be out of whack. Without sliding and with a great deal of concentration, the two men were both upright and taking inventory of their battered bodies.

"I seem to be in one piece, although that sound in my head is still there.' Napoleon looked around the room, it's shiny surfaces all reflecting them in a slightly distorted way. Who built rooms lined with steel?

"Monroe. Edgar Monroe, we're on Napila Island and …"

"Very good Mr. Solo. You do remember me." The voice resembled the fizzing sound in his head, and now Napoleon remembered that the madman named Monroe was himself partially galvanized, confined to a wheelchair of his own design that motored around this island laboratory like something out of a science fiction movie.

"Yes, I remember you Monroe. What have you done with Miss Ivy?" The innocent, the young woman whose heart Monroe could not win but was held, imprisoned, as retribution for the rejection. Her father was an industrialist who had foolishly invested in Monroe's ambitious scheme to create a robotic workforce that he envisioned as the future of THRUSH. James Ivy had not grasped the vision, had blindly funded what was now surrounding them all; all except James Ivy, who lay dead in his home from whence Florence Ivy had been kidnapped.

"My little flower is safe and sound, Mr. Solo. She will remain so as long as your people leave me alone. I will send that message along with your dead body, something that will certainly let Alexander Waverly know that I am a force to be reckoned with."

While this was going on Illya had moved very carefully to the wall facing Napoleon, assuming that the view of the room was coming from the little camera he had spotted over the door. By disappearing from Monroe's sight he hoped to provoke something in the way of action, or reaction.

"Where is the Russian? You two had best not try to initiate anything aggressive, you are helpless to leave here. I will have my world, my Florence and my revenge!"

As if on cue, the door swung open and in rolled the fizzing, silver entity that was Edgar Monroe. He held Florence Ivy in an iron grip, a 'hand' that was attached to the man's steel frame. She was terrified, her face red from the tears shed as she cowered in the presence of this madman who loved her.

Illya was holding himself against the wall, flat as he could manage and almost invisible in white against the reflective steel. When Monroe was fully inside the door he saw the source of his machine's power, a small battery that had connector wires attached beneath an acrylic cover. As swiftly as he was able, Illya lifted the cover and pulled every wire; the fizzing noise that accompanied Monroe wherever he went was suddenly quiet, the grip on Florence's wrist immediately released. Edgar Monroe cried out as he realized what had happened, gasped for air as the oxygen he depended on began to falter along with other functions inside his mobile, life-giving unit.

"Illya, he's going to…" Napoleon hadn't realized the man depended on oxygen, hadn't recognized it as part of the clever design. It was too late when Illya tried to reconnect the wires, searching for only the one that would save Monroe's life.

"Let him die, please… don't bring him back." Florence broke down then, falling in Napoleon's arms as she cried, the release of her torment and fear finally finding voice as she realized that the man responsible was now dead.

Illya shook his head, motioning for Napoleon to escort Florence back out into the hallway and closing the door behind them. The few guards that were employed by Monroe would not wage a battle; there were merely hired grunts with no love for the man they served. Within a few hours the island was secured by UNCLE personnel, some of whom would remain to try and decipher the world Monroe had envisioned.

Napoleon, Illya and Florence Ivy flew back to New York via the UNCLE helicopter sent by Alexander Waverly. He would need to inform the young woman of her father's death, and hopefully help her to rebuild a life without fear of Edgar Monroe.

Illya and Napoleon spent the obligatory time in Medical, neither of them particularly anxious to go anywhere. Sometimes a day or two in a quiet room with accommodating nurses was just what was needed.

Sometimes being home, and alone, was not what an agent wanted.


	16. Chapter 16: Just A Feeling

"I thought this was dinner club." Napoleon looked across the table at his laconic partner, the one with the shaggy hair and superior attitude.

"It is a dinner club, The Purple Parrot is well known and has excellent reviews. I knew this was a bad idea.' The look on Illya's face made Napoleon sorry he had brought the brooding Russian along. If Nancy hadn't insisted on a date for her sister…

"Just try to be nice, okay. Stella is a lovely girl, just in for the weekend and very excited to meet someone from …"

"Russia? The Soviet Union? You didn't tell her that, now did you… No, I suspect not." Illya was being difficult, and his American partner wasn't quite sure exactly why.

" _What_ is wrong with you anyway? I thought you were looking forward to this respite from saving the world."

Illya shot his friend an apologetic look, shrugging his shoulders in submission to his guilt. He didn't know what was bothering him, only that something seemed … off. He felt off kilter..

"I apologize Napoleon.' He looked around the room until his eyes settled on the grand piano that was situated at the far end of the big room. Someone had wisely placed it within a dome shaped structure, ensuring the sound quality would not be compromised by the size of the room. However, it was facing in the wrong direction; anyone playing would have his back to the audience.

"That piano seems out of place. Why is it here, does anyone ever play it?" Napoleon had to switch gears; first Illya was anxious to meet Stella and spend the evening with her. Then he went into a funk over the venue and apparently the snub he detected towards his homeland (something Napoleon had not intended). Now he was mesmerized by a big piano. He was trying really hard to like the Russian, but some days were harder than others.

"Did they slip you something in Medical? Why are you bouncing from one mood to another, asking questions that don't seem to be relevant to the evening?" Napoleon could feel himself becoming irritated at the younger man, questioning once more why Waverly had wanted him here in New York.

"I do not mean to be.. um, difficult. However, something feels off about this entire evening. I apologize, again, for appearing churlish…' Really, Napoleon thought to himself.. churlish?

"But the room is out of balance, and the direction of the piano is wrong… Oh." Napoleon's mouth was open now, a slow simmer of recognition that told him Illya's sensitivity to environment and rightness was picking up on something. Damn, he was glad to have the Russian for a partner; he must remind himself of that more often.

Illya had gotten up and was crossing the room towards the piano, Napoleon right behind him as they dodged dancers and others that lingered around the perimeter of the dance floor. One woman reached out and tried to pull the blond back in but Illya shook her off with a barely discernible apology. What he wanted to do was clear the room.

Napoleon spotted Nancy and Stella out of the corner of his eye. Great, the night just kept getting better and better…

Illya reached the stage where the piano was situated, jumping up in one easy movement that reminded Napoleon of a cat. He thought about imitating the motion but opted for a small set of steps to the side of the stage.

Illya stooped down and then was on his back beneath the piano, his penlight in hand as he examined the underside of the instrument. Napoleon hoped Nancy hadn't seen them yet but as he looked around the two women had already spotted their dates and were heading across the crowded room.

Illya looked around and saw the women.

"Get them out of here Napoleon! Get everyone out, there's a bomb inside this piano."

Napoleon took a few seconds to recover from that statement, then wasted no time in jumping down to the floor where he took the women he had hoped to spend a nice evening with and steered them back to the entry.

"I'll explain later, just get outside and across the street. Hopefully it's nothing but… I'll see you later."

Nancy was smart, and she knew Napoleon well enough to not question him if he said there was something dangerous. He hadn't actually said it, but she was a clever girl and able to read between the virtual lines.

Napoleon then went to the bar and flashed his UNCLE card, hoping it would look official enough to the bartender to make him pay attention.

"Listen, my partner is over there dismantling an explosive device. You need to get everyone out of here, and you need to do it now." The man's eyes widened and his mouth searched for words. Napoleon had to reiterate his warning.

"I said NOW!" That did it, the man behind the bar reached for a microphone kept for announcing drink specials and other events, his hands trembling as he fought for control and the urge to just run out of the building.

"Hey everyone, here's something for you to do right now. We have some technical issues that need resolving and so everyone needs to leave… now… and we'll have free drinks when we all come back inside." His expression when he looked again at Napoleon begged for release now that he had made the announcement. Club employees began ushering the crowd out, and Napoleon nodded to the young man, Henry, and told him to get out. The promise of free drinks had been an excellent ruse for the exodus.

As the people exited Napoleon ran back to where Illya was working on the bomb. He found the blond working at some wires, his fingers steady and by all appearances not a drop of sweat on the broad forehead. The fact that he was an explosives expert now struck Solo as a very good recommendation for partnership. The list seemed to be growing.

Finally Illya relaxed his shoulders and laid down completely beneath the piano, closing his eyes and letting out what sounded to Napoleon like a very big sigh.

"All done?"

"Yes, and I know who left it here." Napoleon let out a low whistle. How could Illya possibly know that?

"So… are you going to tell me?"

"Who recommended this place to you?" Napoleon thought for a minute before a long groan escaped his lips.

"Angelique. She said she had been here and enjoyed it. But why would she plant a bomb?" Illya had crawled out from beneath the piano and was sitting at the edge of the stage facing his partner.

"I did not say she planted it, but I do believe that someone knew she recommended it to you and somehow found out what night you would be here."

"So THRUSH… And they were willing to kill all of these people?" That somehow seemed like a long shot to the American. His concentration was interrupted by a familiar voice.

"Not Napoleon." Both men turned to see Angelique walking from out of the shadows behind the piano. She was dressed in a provocatively cut pale blue dress that held each man's attention as she approached them. Even Illya had to admire the woman's … attributes.

"The target was you Kuryakin. And it wasn't THRUSH this time, although I'm sorry to say that my conversation with Napoleon was the catalyst for this little, oh… shall we say, événement malheureux."

"I would agree it was unfortunate, however you have not yet told us who planted the bomb." Illya's momentary lapse in sustained disdain for the woman was now back in place.

"Why darling, can't you guess? It's your friends from the USSR. I can't say which ones for certain, but we found one of our operatives with his throat slit by a garrote in a decidedly Russian manner. Poor fellow had been following you.'' She looked directly into Illya's eyes, daring him to question what she was saying.

"Illya? Do you think she's right?" Napoleon had plenty to keep track of but worrying about his partner being killed or kidnapped by the Soviets had been low on his list. Now even THRUSH was saying it was a possibility.

The Russian paled slightly in the purplish hue of the room. He was here officially, but that would not keep certain elements from trying to stop any cooperation between East and West. He was a poster boy for the impossibly naive.

"I think that Angelique is probably correct in her bomb has a signature of sorts, it fits a Soviet hand. I … thank you. This is valuable information." An unacknowledged acquiescence to their mutual respect for Napoleon created a sort of detente between the Russian and the THRUSH agent. And this time her information might serve him in the future.

Napoleon caught a whiff of something like _not hating each other_ going on between his partner and sometimes lover. He'd better call this in, and tell Henry the bartender that the club was closed for the night.

Those free drinks would have to be for another night.


	17. Chapter 17: Down The Water Spout

Illya Kuryakin had been beat up more than few times in his life, stuck with needles and cut into with scalpels and other less medical forms of knife work. He had endured countless forms of torture, mind altering drugs and humiliating circumstances that would break a normal man; a man with less resilience and fortitude than the Russian possessed.

But Illya Kuryakin had never endured the pain of kidney stones before.

Napoleon Solo, partner extraordinaire and expert empathizer, winced in companionable misery as his partner wailed against the unfathomable pain that was a kidney stone stuck in the most unfortunate of anatomical locations. He had never in his myriad of imaginations conceived of his stoic partner, the unflappable Kuryakin, yielding to this behavior as the relatively small object was allowed to travel its path towards …

"Um, how … I mean… ' Napoleon gestured in the least suggestive manner possible towards the rumpled blond as he writhed in agony. How exactly…

"How does it come out? Well Mr. Solo…" And so Nurse Agnes Mollner began to describe the perilous pathway of this egregious tormentor of men. Napoleon felt slightly faint as he imagined the hideous thing, shuddered slightly when it occurred to him that he might (God forbid), fall victim to this perilous and pernicious enemy of men everywhere.

"So, how long does it last? I mean… poor Illya, it's already been a few hours like this." Nurse Agnes thought she saw a few beads of perspiration on the brow of the handsome CEA. She had heard about the man's exploits, although that wouldn't cause kidney stones. No, it was the diet these men insisted on, their careless eating habits and lack of proper hydration during their missions. She tisked silently at the lack endured by these Section II agents, the probably early deaths and … well, one mustn't to dwell on such things.

"Mr. Solo, it takes as long as it takes. Perhaps someday there will be a method of breaking them up more quickly and shortening the time it takes for this to run its course. For now I believe you'd best be getting some rest yourself; Mr. Kuryakin is going to be here all night, most probably."

Napoleon decided she was right, and besides that he didn't think he could stand to listen to Illya's groaning any longer. Someone else had said this malady was more painful the childbirth, causing Solo to shudder again at the thought of what had to come through that little canal, and how it didn't fit and…

"Oh my God, after THRUSH and other assorted enemies, and this is what brings down Illya Kuryakin?" He said it out loud, and Napoleon immediately regretted it as Nurse Agnes cut her eyes away as though deaf to such outbursts.

"Uh, goodnight then, I.. um.. " Her look was sympathetic.

'We will notify you of any changes, but this is going to take a while. It isn't life threatening and when it's over,' Napoleon's eyebrows shot up as though the thought suddenly hit him that there could be damage to… his southern hemisphere twitched then, a sympathetic gesture to his friend's agony perhaps.

"He will be fine. You men are built stronger than that little pebble, so don't worry. He'll still be able to pee and… well, do other things." And then she winked at Napoleon Solo, a wise and knowing wink that told him she knew what he was thinking and that this wasn't a game changer as far as favorite activities were concerned.

"Oh, well…" He just smiled at that then and bade her farewell.

'Good luck tovarisch, and good riddance to that kidney stone.' Napoleon broke into a whistle as he cleared the building, glad to be free of what plagued his partner and, at Nurse Agnes' urging, committed to drinking more water.

As for Illya, it was a long night.


	18. Chapter 18: And So It Goes

If there was one thing you could count on with someone who worked for THRUSH, it was the need to dominate. Whether an underling grunt like the guy trying to intimidate Illya Kuryakin at the moment, or someone from Central, such as the Mr. Big Shot without a Name who was troubling Napoleon Solo for information. Either one of them could pass Chief Executive for all of the effort being put into looking important.

Mr. Big Shot was running short on patience with the upstart UNCLE agent. He seemed to not be very respectful of the suave American or his position within the Command. Obviously this Big Shot was woefully uninformed regarding top agents.

The grunt had Illya in a very uncomfortable position, with his arms tight behind his back and securely tied at the elbows. Now, however intimidating this guy thought he was, he obviously had little knowledge of the Russian and his uncanny ability to slither out of tight spots, and securing his elbows seemed… dumb. Illya was hanging from his ankles, another inconvenience that he had overcome numerous times. The Grunt was walking around him, his head within reach of the blond's large grip. All he had to do was come a little bit closer.

While Napoleon hedged telling anything useful to Mr. BS, Illya was waiting for the right opportunity to use his hands on his annoying grunt/captor. Even behind his back, with his hands free there was always the off chance…

In a flash everything struck like lightening. The Grunt finally came too close to his dangerous opponent and Illya's hands encompassed the man's scrawny neck. No amount of flailing could derail the grip and as the man saw silver streaks across his vision he withered into unconsciousness.

Just as quickly Napoleon grabbed his opportunity, and Mr. BS while the other man's attention was diverted to the struggle going on between Illya and his man. Napoleon stood up and used his chair as a battering ram, shattering the wood and freeing himself as the THRUSH chief fell in a heap.

In a matter of a minute or so the struggle was over and the UNCLE agents freed from their bonds. Illya had pulled himself up to the beam and freed his feet from that hindrance, dropping to the floor with all of the grace his gymnastic training had provided him.

Napoleon was shaking off the ropes and wrapping them around the wrists of the fallen foe, wondering once more just how these guys managed to climb to the top of the THRUSH heap.

"I suppose we will need to take care of a few more guards on our way out." Illya's response was to simply nod. He liked nothing better than blowing up these places, but as it was located in the middle of a block in Brooklyn… better to not make a mess.

"Here…' He tossed Napoleon a gun. "And your communicator I believe." It was indeed Napoleon's communicator, and his as well set on top of the desk that also held the formula for which they had originally come to retrieve.

"Alrighty then, shall we?" Napoleon stretched his arm in the direction of the door and let his able partner lead the way. Just a few encounters, easily handled, and the two were out the door and onto the street that still buzzed with traffic and commerce.

"Open Channel D, this is Solo…"

And so it goes.


	19. Chapter 19: The Lost Chord

The trio of singers ended their performance with a high pitched squeal that sent the audience into a pain filled tremor as each note in the dis-harmonic chord etched a path inside their brains. The brilliance of using sound like this would have fascinated UNCLE agent Illya Kuryakin, had he not been one of the victims of this new THRUSH endeavor.

His partner, Napoleon Solo, heard the cacophony of human voices and the ensuing wail of those he now reckoned had been rendered senseless, perhaps even dead.

"Illya…Illya can you hear me?" The Russian agent had been the obvious choice to sit in on this performance; his knowledge of both music and science made him uniquely qualified to ferret out any possible danger within what had been identified as a THRUSH entity. The trio, aptly named for those who had designed this villainy, had come to UNCLE's notice with an almost challenging advertisement in the New York Post.

 **European sensation performing live in New York City for the first time. Come and hear harmonies that will change your appreciation of music forever. Presenting The Darkling Thrush!**

The allusion to Thomas Hardy's poem of a bleak and forlorn world was impossible to miss. THRUSH was unyielding in its quest to suppress mankind, a dark image that could only brighten the horizon of the ones wielding the power.

"Mr. Solo, have you contacted Mr. Kuryakin yet?" Alexander Waverly's voice was stern and steady, but an underlying note of concern did not escape the notice of his CEA.

"No sir, not yet. The room has gone completely quiet…' Napoleon's voice trailed off as he watched the door of the music venue open. The three singers emerged, still dressed in their stage clothes of black leather; they had someone in their grip.

"Sir, the singers have just come out of the building and … they have Mr. Kuryakin with them. He appears to be unconscious." A sigh on the other end could not be fully interpreted.

"Follow them, and please do make certain to bring back Mr. Kuryakin. Waverly out."

Napoleon nudged the driver of the car and pointed to the leather clad figures as they climbed into a waiting sedan.

"Follow them Mark, and don't lose that car." Mark Slate turned the ignition and eased into traffic, his eyes steady as he kept pace with the THRUSH vehicle. In the back seat April Dancer held her breath as she thought about the possible dangers to the Russian agent. As the car followed stealthily behind the enemy, each member of the UNCLE team silently hoped for the safety of their friend and fellow agent.

Illya Kuryakin gained consciousness with a keen sense of discomfort. His head was aching, the sound of that screeching noise a backdrop now to the pain. He instinctively kept his eyes closed, hopeful that his captors would not know he was awake, giving him some time to assess his surroundings and the possibilities for escape. He was in a car, not a van. That was unusual for THRUSH, they seemed to enjoy tossing unconscious UNCLE agents into the back of their uncomfortable, lumbering vehicles. This was a luxury car, soft leather beneath him as he deftly felt the surface upon which he lay.

"Tell Central we have Kuryakin. He went down like the rest of the audience, ours for the taking. No doubt Solo and his team are right behind us, so let's just lead them to our next venue of conquest, shall we." The voice was deep, the baritone in the trio. That conjecture was validated by the next voice, one so deep it nearly shocked Illya into an involuntary shudder. Whatever measures he took to remain still, something had alerted the Bass to the Russian.

"Hello Kuryakin. Sorry about the headache…' He wasn't sorry, and he proved it by hauling Illya into an upright position using his hair as leverage to do so.

"Oh, sorry again." The humorless smile made Illya shudder once more. These men had an agenda he couldn't possibly guess at. They were anticipating Napoleon's arrival, which meant they intended to do harm to all of them. Well, not on his watch.

"What exactly was the point of that little demonstration? You don't actually consider it proper music, do you?" The question amused the three singers.

"What does music have to do with anything? We merely wanted to get some of you UNCLE brats out of the way before we start filling up major venues and capturing the masses. THRUSH is getting stronger every day, and you and your kind…" At that moment Illya plunged forward into the driver and over the front seat. The action was so quick, his body able to maneuver with such agility so as to completely surprise and overwhelm the THRUSH men in the midst of their gloating.

The car swung wildly to the left side of the street, crashing into a light pole after barely missing two oncoming cars. The pole fell haplessly atop the sedan just as Mark Slate pulled up behind it. Napoleon and April were out in a split second, but no resistance was made by the men inside. The Bass opened his door and tried to crawl from within the crumpled vehicle, his face bloody and a gash evident on his arm. He collapsed onto the pavement as Napoleon rushed to the passenger side; he hoped against hope that his friend and partner had survived the crash.

Opening the door created the first gasp of surprise as the THRUSH, the Tenor in the group, fell out onto the street. Checking for a pulse Napoleon found none. He looked past the man and there, crumpled in something like a ball in his black attire, was Illya. He had somehow managed to roll into the floorboard of the car and escape serious injury, although for the moment he was unconscious. People liked to talk about Solo's Luck, but looking at the limp blond made Napoleon think his friend's luck was equally defiant when it came to death.

In the early morning hours reports were filed, both verbally and written. Mr. Waverly thanked his agents for their work and for retrieving the Russian. There was always that small measure of additional pressure to keep the man alive; the Soviets were primed to take exception should their man fall into the hands of a common enemy while his partner remained safe and unharmed.

For his part, Illya regained consciousness beneath a crisp white sheet and the careful attention of his partner. He saw Napoleon sitting in the corner of the room, but decided to ignore him for now. They both needed sleep and since Solo was emitting a soft buzzing sound that served as a type of snoring, the weary blond closed his eyes and returned to a dream that entertained him on nights such as this.


	20. Chapter 20: Adios Amigos

plan, black

…

The plan was simple: get inside the offices of Neder and Caulk, attorneys at law, and steal the report in their safe. It was an itinerary for a prominent THRUSH chief as well as a record of his ill-gotten gains. The attorneys worked for the Hierarchy, maintained offices in the City while living just beyond the reach of the law, in case of any repercussions to their criminal activities.

Napoleon Solo and Illya Kuryakin were dressed in black, standing in a dark room that never betrayed their presence to the security cameras that scanned the fourth floor of the Parmenter Building in which the Neder and Caulk offices were located. Black being the operative color of men in stealth mode as they made their way through the files and obvious hiding places for such valuable intelligence.

"I have nothing. If those papers are here then they are very well hidden amongst this impressive collection of legal documents." Illya sighed in exasperation, a not uncommon sound to his partner's acute hearing.

"One more place and then we're calling it a night…' Napoleon reached behind what proved to be a faux window that had a view of nothing, hidden behind a dupioni silk drapery panel. Kuryakin shook his head in a type of self-scolding. He had wondered about the odd placement of that window.

"Here and … now! The snick of a lock releasing put a smile on Solo's face that his partner recognized, even in the dark. He pulled out a small flashlight to illuminate the safe's interior as Napoleon searched for what they had come to retrieve.

Never let it be said that spies cannot be caught in the act. Suddenly the lights came on with blinding brightness, causing the two men from UNCLE to turn and face the intruder. Well, that was a matter of semantics perhaps since it was they who had broken into this space.

A young woman of about twenty-five or so stood staring at the two men in black. She didn't have a gun or any other discernible weapon, but instead held a mop in one hand as she held onto the cart of cleaning supplies with the other.

In a matter of second the scene became clear to her and she stepped back, a fearful expression on her pretty face as she mumbled something in Spanish. In an instant Napoleon was there, his hand across her mouth just in time to stop the scream she would soon release from echoing down the empty hallway.

"Por favor Señorita, por favor, no grites . Nosotros no haremos daño" Illya's assurances that she was safe from harm did little to relieve the expression of fear on her face. Napoleon slowly removed his hand, hoping she would understand and be quiet.

"I speak English, and you do not look so trustworthy to me. Why should I believe you?" Her expression was not entirely in line with the question, setting off a strange sense of concern in Napoleon's gut. He had a feeling she was after something besides dust bunnies beneath the desk.

"I don't think you're really here to clean this office. Who do you really work for? Not THRUSH, and not for us…' Her expression asked the question, so he obliged.

"The U.N.C.L.E., United…"

"Network Command for Law and Enforcement, yes I know of it." Illya stepped forward, closing the gap between all of them as he looked more closely at the woman.

"You know about us, so tell us a little about who sent you here." There was something familiar about her, but not enough to job his memory.

"You knew my father, the one called The King of Diamonds. He left me a short history of his dealings with two agents from UNCLE, a dashing American and his blond partner; a Russian, yes?"

Both men immediately returned to the affair in England and the man they had recruited to help solve a diamond dilemma, and of his subsequent death at the hands of THRUSH.

"Rafael Delgado was your father?" Illya had traversed a South American river in order to rescue his partner and the pudding woman. What was her name?

"Yes, and I intend on ruining the lives of those men responsible for his death. I know several of them died there in that jungle, but two of them survived and escaped. Their plans are in that safe, and I would appreciate it if you would share with me what you have retrieved.' With that the daughter of Rafael Delgado produced a small pistol and aimed it at Napoleon, a small gesture of her intentions.

"I would not enjoy killing you, but I intend to avenge my father's death. Now, if you will please…" She didn't get to finish that because from behind a large hand grabbed her, pulling her backwards into the hallway as another man lunged forward, tackling Illya while Napoleon looked on. It was clumsy, to be sure, but remembering the men who had been involved in the King of Diamonds Affair, he felt certain their ineptness remained a part of their current condition.

Illya easily escaped the grasp of the larger man, taking him out with one swift karate clip. Napoleon turned to the other intruder, watching with some admiration as the young woman pretended to faint, causing the brute to lose his grip on her and allowing Solo the opportunity to shoot him with a sleep dart. Within minutes both THRUSH were out, giving the other three an opportunity to look at them more closely.

"These are the men, the ones responsible for your father's death." Napoleon saw a look of sadness come across her face before the relief that her vendetta could end here, on the spot.

"And so … it ends here. Unless of course you will allow me to kill them both." Did she wink at Napoleon?

Illya decided it was time to call this one in, leaving his partner to do what he did best.


	21. Chapter 21: Weight of the World

He was defiant, a man who wouldn't go down easily no matter the opposition. Napoleon Solo felt exhausted from the effort of trying to convince his partner to give up his resistance to the mission at hand. They needed to speak to the priest inside Saint Bonaventura's Catholic Church, and the old man only spoke Polish. That meant Illya was the agent needed for this particular job, leaving Solo to stand guard outside the confessional.

"I am not going inside of that box." Illya was being petulant, something he reverted to whenever logic was not on his side.

"It's a mission Illya, you don't have a choice. Now get in there and play the part of a penitent sinner and try to get the old priest to talk to you. Now!"

"Very well, just remember that next time you will be the sacrificial lamb."

And with that and a huff of disapproval the Russian slid behind the slender door to the confessional booth and waited for the priest to open the grid between them. A card with the order of the sacraments was posted as well as several prayers. Illya was unfamiliar with any of it, his upbringing in the Soviet Union a barrier to any type of spiritual training.

He had his memories however, the times when his babushka had tried to instill in him some of her beliefs. And she had, because the young boy had been anxious and attentive, interested to know and understand about a Being who could command light and darkness with a word, create out of nothingness and surround Illya with love and family.

That had been so long ago. None of it existed any longer, his family was gone and … Enough.

"Father **forgive** me for I have sinned. It has been …' Illya quickly did the math and found it had been… " twenty years since my last confession."

The old priest could just see the outline of the young man's face. He didn't look like a sinner, but then one could never tell by appearances alone. He continued on, prompting the response that would lead to forgiveness and advice for remaining free of sin.

Illya found himself actually giving into the process, felt a sense of relief as he let go of what he had thought was finished; the killing, and the manipulation of innocents while espousing the laws of right and justice. As Napoleon waited outside, his partner laid bare his soul until the remnants of his sin were no more.

The priest, Father Lazlo, heard and recited back to the young man what he needed to hear before confronting him with the information he possessed.

"You are the agent from the U.N.C.L.E., are you not?" That made Illya start for a moment. How had he known?

''I am, yes… How did you know?" And then the evidence betrayed him.

"My son, you have told me so much in such a little bit of time. I have been expecting someone from your organization, but I imagine you had no intention of falling prey to the Lord's scrutiny."

Illya shook his head in both amusement and consternation. The **white** light of God's interrogation had caught him unaware. This priest would be a valuable addition to the network of UNCLE watchers who held the ropes for those in the field. These were the ones who would pull you back when the abyss threatened to swallow you.

"I am not a believer, Father, not in the sense you know. But thank you for listening. I do believe to unburden one's soul is of great value. And now, what do you have for us?"

When Illya stepped out of the confessional and back into the church, Napoleon was scanning the ancient room. There was no sign of a threat here, not today.

"Ah, there you are. I take it you have what we came here for." A slight nod indicated yes, but the blond was wordless as he strode past his partner.

Napoleon noted something about his friend, but darned if he could say just what it was that made Illya seem to be walking with less weight in his steps.


	22. Chapter 22: Lesson Learned

"You are a **yellow** bellied coward, and i mean to teach you a lesson!" The burly man with the thick accent hovered menacingly over a smaller blond whose affect of sheer terror was fooling the brute into a sense of false security.

Illya Kuryakin was coiled for action, not how the other man saw it as he continued his tirade against the man he considered a traitor to his cause. In an instant the UNCLE agent unfurled his body into a frenzy of action, striking out at his target with a force that sent him reeling backwards into a flimsy piece of furniture, causing it to shatter on impact.

It was over so soon, the big man knocked unconscious with the one forceful blow from Kuryakin. Napoleon had been near but not near enough to get in on the action. He came through a door with anticipation only to be met by his partner standing over the prone body of his antagonist. Illya had been undercover for a few weeks and was only recently discovered foraging for information in the big man's private office. The operation was an unsophisticated attempt to form a criminal organization made up of street urchins and uneducated young men who yearned for something beyond their poverty.

Napoleon stood at his partner's side for a few minutes, transfixed by the Russian's concentration on the lump of a man at his feet.

"You okay Illya?" So far he hadn't said a word, just stood staring down at his victim.

"Da…yes. I…' He sighed involuntarily.

"This is a scene from my youth, of bullies and opportunists who would use the unfortunate for their own **vice.** I was angry Napoleon. I acted in anger, not out of a sense of duty.' He turned and looked at his friend, ready for a rebuke if there was one to be had.

"Was I wrong?" He needed to know, because if his position as an agent of UNCLE were to be powered by a sense of vengeance rather than justice, then he didn't belong here.

"No. No, you're not wrong, you did nothing wrong. This man needed to be stopped, and whether or not it rang a bell from your past is irrelevant. You did your job Illya, and you left him alive to face the consequences."

Napoleon pulled out his communicator and called in the location, requesting a clean up crew and informing Mr. Waverly of the outcome. He kept an eye on his friend, wondering how deeply the wounds were embedded in the young Soviet agent.


	23. Chapter 23: Forging Friendship

"What's the look on your face?" Napoleon was amused at the frown on Illya's face, not that it was unusual for the sometimes stern Russian. This was a different frown, accompanied by a scowl and then a final exhalation of breath as he put down his cup of tea.

"Why is it that finding a decent cup of tea is so very difficult? Whatever this is…' He took a look at the tag on the teabag and scowled again.

"I don't even recognize this. At least give me an Earl **Grey** , something I can tolerate." Now Napoleon was near laughter. Imagine this type of emotional response to a cup of tea. Tsk, tsp…

"Illya, you amaze me sometimes. You will let a beautiful woman pass you by without so much as a twinge of admiration, endure insults to your heritage and aspersions to your ability to fight off bigger men…" Illya glared at his partner.

"Where, exactly, are you going with this Napoleon?" Illya had sat up straighter in his chair and stuck out his chin in defiance of the tone in his partner's rundown of what was apparently a list of his shortcomings.

"What? Oh, not me. You know that, right? I'm just saying that you've put up with a lot at times and never shown any kind of emotion. Women flirt with you and you turn them away without so much as a smidgen of encouragement or thanks. I fear that if you were to ever really cut **loose** and do what you want…" The intimation of Illya wanting to act differently washed over the blond, causing a slight flush in his complexion.

"I assure you that I do exactly as I please, respond as I wish and have no regrets regarding either. Do I enjoy the attention of beautiful women? Yes, by all means. Do I intend to bed each one of them or take them down a lane strewn with promises I cannot keep? No, nor should you. However I leave that to _your own conscience_."

Napoleon bristled slightly at that last comment. Why was this suddenly about him?

"Hey, wait a minute. We're talking about you and how you responded to a lackluster cup of tea. Honestly Illya…"

"Oh really… honestly?" One blond eyebrow arched as he goaded his friend into the next round of speculation. Napoleon was flustered, once again, unable to wrangle any kind of real response from the man Waverly had partnered him with. He wondered if all Russians were this disagreeable.

"Yes, honestly. Let's be honest, shall we. What about that girl, Mr. Waverly's niece? Alice, right?" Illya once again straightened his shoulders, his demeanor now more combative than previously. What had just happened? Napoleon suddenly regretted bringing up that affair.

"Alice was, is…' Something washed over his face that cast a shadow on his features.

"Alice and I were not completely compatible, and … nothing happened between us."

But something had happened, and Napoleon knew very well that his younger partner, the man who made secretaries swoon in spite of his aloof nature, had fallen hard for the niece of their Chief. The pretty blonde had been equally infatuated with the Russian agent sent to protect her from some deranged gypsy.

"I'm sorry Illya, I didn't mean to bring up something unpleasant, I… ' And then he saw it, and understood what had really happened between Illya and Alice Waverly.

"He made you stop seeing her didn't he. Mr. Waverly didn't want his niece involved with an agent." Napoleon knew it wasn't Illya's nationality that had been at issue. No, it was that he worked for UNCLE, was a disposable commodity when it came down to it. Waverly had no intention of letting Alice become too emotionally attached to a man who might never come back from a mission. Damn it.

Illya took a sip of the disagreeable tea, swallowing in a rote manner that indicated he no longer tasted anything, just needed to do something besides think about what Napoleon had said.

"I think we have a meeting with Mr. Waverly in a few minutes, do we not." Deflecting. The conversation would not continue, at least not at this table. Napoleon determined to be a little more sensitive to his partner's responses. He had misjudged him, but that wasn't going to happen in the future.

 _'I have your back my friend'_ he promised to himself. And Napoleon always kept his promises.


	24. Chapter 24: Riding High

It didn't take long for the blond to wake up from the annoying jostle he endured at the hands of his uncaring partner.

"Hey, wake up! You need to get up Illya. Like, now." Napoleon's voice was iced over with dread, the gun in his face too close to ignore or make light of.

"Your lazy Russian partner let you take the heat for this, tough guy. I think you'd be better off without him." With that the gun shifted its aim and was directed at the newly alert blue eyes of Illya Kuryakin.

The gunman was nervous, his hand shook slightly as he tried to convince the two UNCLE agents that he meant business with a capitol B. Napoleon wasn't buying it, but he also knew a nervous gunman was infinitely more dangerous than one with nerves of steel. Accidents could, and did, happen.

Illya didn't move a muscle, his mind was racing with scenarios in which he didn't die here, hoping that his partner was planning something brilliant and, ultimately, non violent for their escape.

"Look Alan… May I call you Alan?' A nod indicated his permission.

"Alan, I don't know what you think has happened here but, hey… we're all just guys right? You and me and Illya. Why would you want to hurt either of us? All we did was help you get what was yours and now, well now you're free to go on your way and never see anyone from that THRUSH gang ever again. We helped get your freedom. Is that any reason to want to shoot us?"

He was smooth, his voice a soothing balm over the frayed nerves of Alan Dempsey. The man had gotten entangled with a THRUSH chief who used him to, as they say, 'cook the books'. Alan was a keeper of books, an accountant with a steady hand where numbers were concerned. But now he was scared, and these two had convinced him to double-cross Nicky Esperanza, a violent man whose conscience was seared over by years of crime. He knew who had betrayed him and his organization. THRUSH wouldn't like what they were going to see when Nicky's books were examined. Somebody would pay, and Esperanza knew just who to look for.

"You guys made me do it, and now Nicky is looking for me and he's… O god he's gonna kill me…" It wasn't declarative, more of a whine that seemed to shatter what was left of Alan's composure. Illya saw his opportunity and with a swiftness that surprised even Napoleon, took the gun from the would-be assassin and holstered it. The gun was his, the silver glint on the grip betraying the letter K…for Kuryakin.

With that swift restructuring of the power, Alan collapsed onto the cement floor and bowed his head, almost as if in worship of some unseen god.

"I think we best find a way out of here." Illya's advice was exactly what Napoleon had in mind. He went to the door and looked down an empty corridor that led to another door.

"Does this lead to the outside? Alan! Will we get outside if we go down this corridor?" The man was beyond caring, he already envisioned his demise at the hands of Esperanza. There was no escaping that maniac.

"Y…yes… But don't think you'll ever get away from him. He… he owns this city. We're all doomed." Illya shook his head. He had no patience with this type of melodramatic display.

"We are going to get out of here and Nicky Esperanza does not own this city. He is a THRUSH minion like all of the others and ultimately will be forced to explain to them where the money went. He is the one who is doomed. Do you understand?"

Alan seemed to brighten a little at that. He hadn't actually considered what THRUSH would do to Esperanza, only his own fate. Something clicked, a shot of adrenaline in light of a prospect for survival he hadn't had ten minutes earlier.

"You're right, aren't you. THRUSH is the bigger, uh… man… so to speak. Nicky is in trouble with THRUSH. Yes, we can get out down that corridor. My car is in the back and…"

Napoleon took him by the arm and was ushering him out before he could finish his sentence. Down the corridor, out the door and into Alan's Mark II convertible. Illya was at the wheel as he admired the vehicle. Napoleon whistled a low, admiring tune.

"Nice ride Alan. And it's in beautiful condition." That seemed to please the accountant. He had spent Nicky's money for things that made him happy, like this car. He hoped he could keep it.

"Am I going into witness protection? I think I can handle it if that's what I need to do." He was earnest now, a future lay before him that an hour ago he had deemed impossible. Napoleon recognized the cycle of emotions, going from despair to hope. UNCLE did that for people sometimes.

"Alan, we'll keep you safe, and whichever method of long term security is best suited for your situation, well you have my word that you'll be well taken care of."

That seemed to make Alan feel better. Maybe there was life after crime.


	25. Chapter 25: Raising Flags

"George, you must be joking. There's no way in the world that you can land a date with Marilyn before I do. In fact, well… let's face it George." George Dennel waited for what seemed like several minutes before jumping in.

"Face what Napoleon? That you're more suave, more handsome… ''

Illya had been listening to this ridiculous conversation for longer than he wanted to admit. He'd had enough.

"Will you two quit this and just ask the woman out. She will say yes or no, and then the entire thing will be settled. I for one doubt that she will have either of you… blockheads."

That was enough to spur on the dueling pair of Romeos. George had been admiring Marilyn Lacey for weeks now, ever since she first clocked in for her first day on the job. Napoleon had flirted with her, figuring that he would entice her over time with subtle innuendo and that disarming smile of his. Oh yes, he knew it was disarming.

"Fine. Just… fine. Napoleon?" The CEA looked amused, but he didn't want to hurt old George's feelings. He'd not started this little match, but as the top agent in New York Headquarters there was a certain responsibility to not stir up trouble.

"Look George…' He started to back down but then George got a look on his face that was pure determination and more than a little bit challenging.

"I say may the best man win. We both go to her and make our case for why she should go out with only one of us. Deal?" George smiled, perhaps a little less confident than a few minutes ago, but a smile nonetheless.

"Deal."

Illya just shook his head. His amusement at this little episode had waned, he was genuinely embarrassed for both of his friends. Napoleon had never let a challenge for a woman's affections gain any attention, and now this little showdown was going to be conducted in front of a good portion of the staff.

Walking away from the spot where the conversation had finally ended, Illya had to speak to Napoleon and hoped the answer would be that George could just have the pretty blonde who had stolen his heart.

"Are you seriously going to do this?" Napoleon's chin was leading his body as he strode purposefully down the corridor.

"I am. And I will win."

"Win?"

"Of course. That's the point, winning." Illya shook his head again, the sheer idiocy of this little exercise beginning to annoy him.

"Napoleon Solo, you know very well that the chances of humiliating George are very high, and in front of other people. Why are you insisting on following through with this? You act as though a rogue knight has thrown down the proverbial gauntlet and you are honor bound to answer."

Napoleon stopped walking, causing Illya to back up in order to continue speaking to him.

"What is this really about my friend?" Illya had a hunch that Napoleon was acting out of some other motivation, but what it had to do with George Dennel was beyond him.

Napoleon took a deep breath and then looked at Illya.

"Marilyn is a plant. Mr. Waverly and I have been tracking some suspicious activity…' He took Illya by the shoulder and guided him into an empty office before continuing.

"We were going to inform you of this but then the thing with George came up and… well, I had to do something. He can't go out with her, and when he broached the subject with me I had to do something, say something…"

"That wouldn't betray the investigation. I understand." Illya knew there was another explanation, although this was not what he had expected.

"So, do you suspect that she is THRUSH?" That was the obvious question to ask, but it always shocked him to think that people like Marilyn Lacey could work willingly for the Hierarchy. What had they offered her, he wondered.

"We think she may be working for someone, but so far we haven't been able to make a connection to THRUSH. It's just circumstantial at this point, but something is off." Illya considered that for a moment, then remembered hearing her speak a Russian phrase to one of the other women. She seemed to be relating a story, but it had struck him as odd somehow. Now he wondered about where she had come from.

"Let me check her out. I know you and George are engaged in this dating showdown, but in the meantime…" Napoleon recognized something in Illya's tone that alerted him to the Russian's suspicions.

"What? What do you know?"

"Nothing concrete, but she speaks Russian." Napoleon whistled at that. Sure there were people who spoke various languages within UNCLE, but her background hadn't included foreign languages. She was a secretary with low level clearances.

"Do you think she's here to spy on you?" A raised eyebrow said enough for Napoleon to change his tactic.

"Ask her out. Do it now, before George can get to her. We need to know why she's here, and if she's KGB or … well, we need to know."

Now it was Illya heaving a heavy sigh.

Two nights later found Kuryakin and the lovely Marilyn dining at a cozy little restaurant that featured a wait staff heavily populated by UNCLE employees. Marilyn didn't know any of them, but they were there to keep an eye on the two, making certain that no one was after the Russian agent.

Marilyn cooed her approval as a dessert was delivered.

"Ooh, pastila. Illya, how…?" She flushed slightly as the pink colored confection arrived. Illya knew that it would be very unusual for someone other than a Russian, or one familiar with Russian cuisine, to know of pastila.

Illya feigned surprise at her recognition.

"You know this dish? I am surprised, it is uniquely Russian, and not served many places here in New York." His eyes were piercing as he set his gaze on her, not blinking or shifting in any way.

"Oh, I… well, I have friends…' She sat back in her chair and smiled.

"No, you have me Comrade. How did you know?"

Illya related his observations, watching her reaction as he mentioned the faux pas she had committed by speaking the Russian phrase to one of the other women. It was serendipity that he should have overheard her, although that was not the word she would have used.

"I am very glad you asked me to dinner Illya. I have been watching you, although I have not reported everything to my superiors. It really was very sloppy of your UNCLE to not catch me sooner, or worse that they hired me at all. It does not bode well for you I fear, should our masters decide that you are more dangerous here than you are useful."

Illya was still watching her, trying to decide if she was lying or simply buying time. Perhaps … perhaps neither.

"Marilyn, or whatever your real name is…"

"It is Marilyn. I was raised in this country, I am more American than you are." Illya smiled at that.

"But I have never pretended to be an American. I am Russian, I will always be Russian. Which makes me more honest than you are… Marilyn." With that he got the attention of one of the waiters, motioning for him to come to their table.

"Please bring us our check, and inform our UNCLE that we have solved our relationship issues." The Section III agent nodded and did as Illya had asked. When he and Marilyn reached the front door a van was waiting for them at the curb.

"Are we taking this back to Headquarters?" Marilyn was hoping for better rather than worse.

"No, I am afraid that you are going to make this trip by yourself. I won't be joining you." He felt sad as he shut the door behind her; sad for Marilyn, sad for himself. Sad for the whole sorry mess that seemed to never go away.

The driver of the van had instructions to deliver Marilyn Lacey to the FBI offices in Manhattan. She was an agent of a foreign power, unregistered and very likely to be sent home to an uncertain future. Illya had no choice but to follow protocol. Had she been allowed to continue his own life might have been at risk. It didn't make things easier for him, nor did it ease the lump in his throat as he considered all of the angles.

Napoleon was waiting for his partner when Illya walked into Waverly's office. The mood was somber, the reality wrenching.

"I'm sorry Illya, that couldn't have been easy." Napoleon knew his friend did not send Marilyn away without remorse. If only it could have been different.

Alexander Waverly was watching his agent closely, certain that had he been given a choice in the matter, he might have let the woman go. He hadn't, but then Mr. Kuryakin wasn't in charge.


	26. Chapter 26: Weighty Matters

"… and so in conclusion I want to reiterate that I disagree with the summation of this affair and its relative consequences."

Alexander Waverly looked up at the speaker as though just realizing the man was in the room.

"Oh, ahh… Thank you, Mr. Webley, your … ahh, your complaint is noted." He nodded his head to indicate the matter was now closed and that Mr. Webley was dismissed. He would not be involved any longer in the discussion regarding the Angel Falls Affair.

Napoleon Solo took a sideways glance at his partner, Illya Kuryakin, before speaking.

"Sir, we understand Mr. Webley's point of view on this matter, but in all honesty the trek up Auyan-tepui did not violate any of the region's indigenous peoples or practices. We interfered in nothing in pursuit of the THRUSH who were attempting to gain control of the falls. Venezuela has filed no complaints, making those of Mr. Webley questionable at best."

Illya nodded in agreement. The falls were named for a pilot named Jimmy Angel, who had abandoned his aircraft at the top of the mountains in 1937; it was still there as he had left it. THRUSH had attempted to remove it, hoping to unearth some mysterious power source they thought responsible for the plane's descent atop the falls highest point.

"The plane was mired in marshy ground, making it impossible for Angel to take off again. It has nothing to do with some geophysical, metaphysical or any other phenomenon of nature. Marsh, very simply, marsh. We observed it and have reported it. We also shut down the satrapy responsible for that venture and…" Waverly held up his hand, stopping Illya from continuing.

"Mr. Kuryakin, Mr. Solo… you do not need to explain any more of this mission to me. I understand your report, completely." A small smile almost materialized, but the mask of sovereignty remained intact.

Napoleon cleared his throat and stretched his neck, a habit of which he was unaware but signaled to his partner a measure of insecurity unseen by others.

"Okay… So, we are to ignore Mr. Webley…?' He waited for a sign of some sort.

"We are to … be excused?" Waverly almost laughed at that. He didn't intend to impose a demeanor of such terror inducing power, but Mr. Solo seemed to be a shade of white only slightly more colorful that his pale complected partner.

"Mr. Solo, the attitude represented by Mr. Webley, and perhaps others like him, are that the Angel Falls and other natural wonders of its ilk, should never be trespassed for any reason, even ours. He has overlooked the very real danger that THRUSH was presenting to that region, instead concentrating on what he feared we, UNCLE, might impose. I let him state his case, and I will communicate to him in more detail what has been avoided by our presence there. Now, if there is nothing more…"

The Old Man was done. He raised his eyebrows in a questioning manner, but the only response from the two agents was to rise from their seats and walk out of his office.

He watched them go, letting the smile he had hidden finally and fully crease the weathered features. But then it passed, and the weight of the world was once more on his shoulders.


	27. Chapter 27: Dreaming Big

The little girl twirled in front of the mirror, sheer delight imbuing her with a delicate sort of beauty that transcended the freckled face. Red hair spun in ringlets as she continued to revel in the joy of the dress she was wearing.

"Mama, am I beautiful in this?" Pink cheeks and missing front teeth made her all the more lovable to the girl's mother.

"Darling, you are the most beautiful girl in the world."

Whether she was or wasn't the most beautiful was not as important as simply being beautiful in this moment. Her mother's tact was redolent with love and the knowledge that her daughter would indeed grow up to be stunning. All of her family were, no point in denying it. And the Dancer genes were just as attractive; her husband was the most handsome man at West Point when she met him and fell in love.

"All right darling girl, its time to take off your dress so the nice lady can put it in the bag for us. We have an appointment at the hair salon in twenty minutes." April, named so named because her mother was born in that month, dreamed of the day when she would have everyone's attention as she waltzed through life in the prettiest clothes the stores had to offer.

 _Twenty Years Later…_

"Look at her, she's stunning."Daryl Mulrooney was helpless in the wake of the auburn haired beauty who was heading in his direction. The man at his side agreed as he winked in her direction. A man and his muse, that was the cover as Illya Kuryakin played the part of a fashion designer, and April his model and wife.

"Yes Daryl, she is… and she's mine. Remember that."

The subject of their mission could only hope to understand what his old Cambridge friend had in store for him.


	28. Chapter 28: I Resolve

There would be no going back now. The damage was done and two UNCLE agents knew that nothing in their arsenal of skill or gadgetry could create a panacea to assuage the horrific effects of THRUSH's latest horror.

Illya Kuryakin was still trembling from the cocktail of drugs in his system. His partner, Napoleon Solo, was battered from a series of brutal interrogations prior to the ultimate showdown between Kaz Hiromata and the Fates.

"Illya, can you stay with me please, don't black out." The tremor in Solo's voice betrayed his emotional state. The fire and smoke on the horizon was what remained of Hiromata's compound; lives had been lost and the lightening emanating from the carnage seemed like the punctuation to the lines in a horror story. It was almost miraculous that the pair of agents had escaped, and in fact their current state belied any ability to have done so.

"Where are we Napoleon?" The burr of a Russian accent was stronger now as Illya tried to conjure up some type of composure. His entire body felt like it had been struck by that bolt of lightening; he was a living testimony to the truth of one's blood boiling. He only hoped that he would survive once more.

Napoleon surveyed the small craft on which they were floating, on which they had escaped the fire of destruction even as they had certain death. Neither of them could account for their situation, and the only certainty in either of their minds was that had they remained, death would have claimed them as surely as it had those caught beneath the surface of that small, man made island.

"Just hold on a little longer Illya, the last beacon of our existence just ignited. I'm fairly certain that there will be help on the way… soon.' Napoleon caught a sigh before it erupted into a full blown sob. Too many deaths, too many innocents whose lives they hadn't been able to save. So why were they still here?

"I don't know how this happened, but for the first time in my life … perhaps …" And then the floodgates opened. Illya reached out a trembling hand and placed it on his friends bloody arm. A knife wound that had gone untreated was threatening the CEA of UNCL Northwest, but nothing seemed as deadly as the sight he now watched from the safety of their little escape vessel.

"We live to fight another day moy brat." Illya's accent was stronger, more emphatic as he tried to reassure his friend and partner that there would still be battles in which they were needed. Nothing was fair, and never equal. It simply was.

Napoleon nodded, the tears in his eyes making the faraway scene more like an impressionist painting. He was tired, bone tired. Help would be on the way and there was nothing he could do now for those whose lives were surely lost. He was glad of one thing only: he and his friend were alive to go back to work and defeat the evil that was the Hierarchy.

A life's work was ahead of him, so he lay down his head and slept.


	29. Chapter 29: The Cold Affair

If it weren't for Napoleon's fever the room would have been completely devoid of warmth. Illya was trying desperately to keep from succumbing to hypothermia as the temperature continued to plummet into the uninhabitable range.

Napoleon was suffering from the effects of THRUSH's latest attempt to kill the world's population, something they regularly researched in their efforts to rule a planet that they ironically wished to turn into a wasteland.

Illya was contemplating this and more as his brain continued to inform his body that he was nearing a state of frozen incoherence. But he had to stay alert somehow, he and his partner needed to escape. As the minutes ticked by that thought seemed to grow impossibly distant.

There was black everywhere, and a sense of floating that immediately put the Russian on alert. He was in some sort of vacuum, another distressing tool from THRUSH that was intended to crush him, and somehow he feared that it would.

Even more alarming was the inability to move. He seemed to be in restraints. The last thing he remembered was being in that frozen chamber, of Napoleon sweating out a fever…

"Napoleon!" He shouted the name, hoping against hope that his friend was still alive. In spite of the blackness that surrounded him, Illya still believed that he could fight his way out of this situation. Thrashing without success, he finally lay back down and made himself calm the unrest that roiled within.

"Illya? Are you there?" The voice was Napoleon's, but where was he?

"Napoleon, are you alright? Do you know where we are?" The blackness was overwhelming, but the comfort of hearing his partner's voice somehow subdued the panic that had threatened to overwhelm him.

"Yes, I… I seem to be fine. I think we're safe Illya. I think we made it back."

Back? What was Napoleon talking about?

"Yes indeed, Mr. Solo. You have made it back safely and without any indication of the THRUSH serum that was in your system." The voice of Alexander Waverly was unmistakable, but Illya still had no memory of being delivered back to the care of UNCLE.

"Sir?" Illya didn't know what question to ask. The last thing he remembered was the cold, and his concern for Napoleon.

''Mr. Kuryakin, you were in an isolation chamber. The drug given to Mr. Solo had a contagion that could only be destroyed by freezing temperatures. Unfortunately, you were also infected, although the danger in your system was averted … "

"Inside the chamber… Yes, I understand." Illya did understand, and gradually he began to remember how they had arrived inside of that frozen anti-viral environment.

"And now? Are we … is Napoleon free of the virus?" The lights had continued to come up gradually, apparently a precaution for the sake of the agents' eyesight after the cold and dark of the chamber as it returned to a normal temperature.

"Yes, you are both quite well, although a stay in Medical will be necessary, as a precaution. You understand, of course."

Illya was able to see Napoleon now, each of them secure in their beds as the restraints released remotely. Each man nodded their acquiescence to the prescribed rest in Medical.

Another close call, another timely rescue from the jaws of death. Another day in the life of an UNCLE agent.


	30. Chapter 30: Rolling Cat Eyes

Napoleon Solo watched as a raging THRUSH chief pummeled his partner, _Illya the Ruskie Kuryakin_. That was what he was being called, not by Napoleon… by the _other guy_.

The _other guy_ was a fellow named Bruno Klemper, and he was taking out every vengeful impulse on the hapless Kuryakin. The blond was sagging as he hung precariously by his wrists from a rather spectacular system of chains and pulleys, all of which were engineered to cause the utmost in discomfort as Klemper battered the agent with a rising tide of enthusiasm.

Napoleon hadn't fared much better, having been the first up on this creatively designed torture mechanism. As he grimaced with pain, both his and Illya's, his attention was drawn gradually to a pair of mismatched eyes that peered at him from beneath a metal bench. Blue and green, each eye was vibrant and set within equally contrasting colors on the curiously hued feline.

" _Kitty_ …' he whispered, not wanting Klemper to hear him calling to the cat. " _Come here kitty, pretty little kitty…_ "

The cat looked from its odd set of eyes, considering the invitation from the man. He seemed friendly enough, although the cat recognized the violence within the room. She was not inclined to the mood it created, and reckoning that this one was probably a kinder being than the one beating on the light colored fellow, she crept from her hiding place and approached the man with the soft voice.

Napoleon squinted at the pink heart that boasted her name: _Venus_.

"Ah, just the girl for me sweet Venus. I wish you had a knife with you…" It was a wistful comment, as though the cat could help. Just as Napoleon was dismissing his most ardent desire at the moment, Venus began to gnaw on the rope that bound his wrists. She was efficient, as cats are generally, and within a short bit of time the fraying was sufficient for Napoleon to snap the rope and free himself. Venus knew she had done the right thing, and her reward was in the hand that petted and caressed her for her efforts.

"You are a very fine kitty Miss Venus. Now…" Out of the sightline of Klemper, Napoleon crept like the cat had just minutes before until he was able to strike the THRUSH with one resounding blow to the head. The immediate relief to Kuryakin was a groan intended to convey gratitude, although it sounded more like the depths of despair to Venus. Poor fellow, she thought. As for Klemper, he had never been kind to her, teasing her for her unusual appearance and never caressing her as the new man had done. She turned her back on the unconscious man and peed, effectively marking him with her disdain.

Napoleon caught that and laughed out loud. It was almost worth the torture to witness the simplicity of the cat's retribution.

He pulled on the chains until at last Illya dropped free, landing in the arms of his partner just before the floor would have claimed him.

"Hey, are you going to live?" With all he could muster, Illya rolled his eyes at the absurd question.

Napoleon found the weapons that had been confiscated, and their communicators. He called in for help before venturing out into the hallway beyond. Two guards were shocked at the appearance of the man they had so recently seen being tortured by their boss. Neither of them were particularly brave, nor were they truly committed to the cause. With great ease and little effort they were convinced that surrender was the wisest path for them.

When at last the drama was completely over, the agents were once again in Medical. Napoleon had insisted on bringing the cat with them, much to Illya's surprise when he was coherent enough to hear the whole account of her assistance.

"So, you are telling me that you communicated with, um…" He hesitated to let Napoleon say her name once again.

"Venus. Her name is Venus. I'm sure you can understand the significance."

"Oh, indeed,' he snickered slightly at his friend's serious demeanor.

"So, you convinced her to help free you, whereupon she chewed through the ropes until you could cast them off." Napoleon was slowly nodding his head. Illya remained impassive, with great effort.

"Yes, and she did. And here we are. So, you are not the only feline magnet my Russian friend. Venus chose me." Now Illya was nodding, his smile suppressing a guffaw he dared not allow to come out. Perhaps Napoleon was correct, and this cat was his match.

Only time, _cat time_ , would tell.


	31. Chapter 31: Settled

The sun was setting in a spectacular fashion, with hues taken from an array of fruity popsicles; red and orange, yellow and purple. It was a sight not lost on the Russian man who watched it as he sat perched atop a bench on the Santa Monica pier. The day had been long and the mission a success. It wasn't always that way.

Napoleon Solo looked sideways at his friend, relished the calm they were both experiencing at the moment. He was not anxious to break it.

"Illya?"

The blond lowered his eyes, looking instead at the wood decking beneath his feet. The remains of someone's meal lay crumpled within wax paper wrappings, just inches from the trash can.

"Why are people so careless? Do you ever wonder about that?" Illya leaned over and picked up the litter, deposited it in the can.

Napoleon wondered about a lot of things, not the least of which was what went on in the mind of his friend. He shook his head at the absurdity of finding the interest it had taken to throw the trash away, given the day they'd had.

"Looking for a new line of work?"

"I could do worse."

"Worse than picking up trash on a pier? In California?" Napoleon shook his head at the absurdity of this line of talk.

"Napoleon, do you ever get tired?" He shook his head again. Where was this heading?

"Illya, we had a rough day. But we made it, and the sunset is…"

"Almost gone. The sun will go down as it does everyday, and tomorrow we will get up once more, do our duty and hope to survive until another day can begin. I ask you once more, do you ever get tired of it?"

This time there was an ache in his voice, something was hemorrhaging from deep inside and no amount of world saving rhetoric could silence the cry of despair from those who couldn't be saved, but whose last hope had been for just a little longer in this life.

"We did the best we could." Napoleon's voice sounded weak to his own ears, the memory of how that THRUSH agent had looked as her own people shot her, despising her acts of treachery in helping the two UNCLE agents escape.

"I know we did… I… Sometimes our best isn't enough. It makes me tired for trying."

Napoleon did understand, he did get weary of the near misses, the bodies of the dead. There was a high cost for saving the world, higher than he could have imagined when he started out.

"You know, what we do isn't easy. If it was then everyone would do it." That brought a small smile to Illya's face. The absurdity was funny.

"Do you remember when we were on that case in England, with Morton and his THRUSH girlfriend?" Napoleon nodded, of course he remembered. That had been tragic in the end, for everyone involved.

''Yes, it hasn't been that long. Why?" Illya smiled again, turning to look at Napoleon with as earnest an expression as he could remember on his friend's face.

"It was a slightly facetious comment at the time, but in thinking back, well… regardless of what may happen in the coming years, I want you to know that I meant it, what I said."

Now Napoleon had to think back, reviewing that affair in fleeting moments, scene by scene. That final meeting with Mr. Waverly, the discussion of an impending wedding…

"You said we'd always have each other. I'm afraid it wasn't much of a consolation for me that day, considering other agents were marrying and, well… you know." Each man smiled at that, a memory, disappointment.

"Yes, I do know. And so I say it again, no matter what happens my friend, I will always be here for you. Regardless of the circumstances, the years… "

"We'll always have each other. Yes, we will.' Napoleon slapped Illya on the shoulder, a seal the deal sort of male gesture intended to both comfort and confer.

"So, how about something to eat? We have a coastline full of restaurants and beautiful women, why not enjoy the evening. I'd say we've earned it."

Illya stood up from his bench and looked out over the water once last time. The sun was almost entirely set now, the vibrant colors from a few minutes earlier transposed into deep blues beneath the white foam as waves continued to wash ashore.

"Yes, a celebration for those of us who live to tell the tale."

"Amen to that, brother."

"Moy drug… da, amen to that."

And, amen to that.


	32. Chapter 32: A Friend In Need

He was groggy, a condition that had become all too familiar to the blond. He looked in the mirror and was unmoved by what he saw, in spite of what he knew his partner would say.

The face was unshaven, hair askew… generally unkempt and now, looking closer, his complexion appeared slightly green. That observation seemed to precipitate a surge of queasiness that rose up within his body and caused a reaction he had also become accustomed to. Illya twirled around to face the toilet and spewed out the last of what remained in his tortured stomach.

After throwing up what felt like his entire system of internal organs, Illya simply lay down on the cool bathroom tiles and closed his eyes. He could just sleep in here, the pathway to his bed seemed too complicated, too lengthy…

A knock on the door to Kuryakin's apartment received no answer in return. Napoleon Solo knew his friend was still sick, although the pathology of his illness was as yet undetermined. A sojourn in a THRUSH cell combined with an array of drugs and possibly a virus found in the lab of the satrapy had the UNCLE labs searching for answers. He had been assigned the care and oversight of the patient after he obtained permission to go home and recuperate. It was a hard fought freedom from the confines of the hospital floor, but only after he was deemed to be free of anything contagious or potentially dangerous.

Napoleon wasn't sure he agreed, his partner looked awful and didn't seem to be improving. In spite of the protests, he was determined to take him back to Medical. He was even more determined now that there was no answer to his aggressive knocking. He used his key, working his way through the security system and into the apartment. It was predictably askew, uneaten food on the coffee table alongside an empty bottle of vodka. How was it that Russians considered that vile potato juice to be somehow medicinal?

Napoleon worked his way through the apartment, calling out to Illya. No response. Now he was worried, and as he came to the bathroom door what he saw raised the alarm considerably. Illya was sprawled out on the floor, dressed in pajama bottoms and looking like death warmed over.

"Illya! Illya, wake up." Napoleon gently tapped on the pale face then instinctively bent down to listen for a heartbeat.

It didn't require an ambulance but Napoleon did manage to get his friend back into Medical, in a bed and under a doctor's care. Only Illya was surprised that he needed to be there, but in his condition, weak and nauseous, the fight to remain at home was little more than a whimpering plea that Napoleon promised he would never share.

And we know that Napoleon always keeps his promise.


	33. Chapter 33: Keeping Up With The Joneses

The air had a chill to it that went straight through his clothing and into his nervous system. Napoleon Solo felt as though he might never get warm again. Even Kuryakin was looking like the beginning of winter might be more than he had bargained for.

"Hey Illya, you're looking a little grey, sort of like this landscape. Cold enough for you?"

The Russian frowned at his partner, the cold permeating his wool overcoat seemed to be ignoring the promised protection it should be providing.

"I am fine, just a little chill in the air." Napoleon had to smile at the lie.

"Well, in any case, the little bird that we're after seems to have found a nest in that building over there. The homing device I slipped beneath his lapel isn't moving anymore." Illya shivered slightly, unwillingly…

"Let us go then, and see if we cannot persuade him to give up this useless chase."

The 'chase', as Illya had put it, was one that had taken them from New York to Connecticut, and which now was taking shelter in an old farmhouse surrounded by a blanket of snow. The heater in the convertible being driven by the UNCLE agents was no longer effective against the cold and snow, it's rag top little use against the wintry conditions.

"I think the fact that he has a fire going inside is a better reason that apprehending him. Ready?" The blond nodded and hustled out of the small car in tandem with his partner's exit. The crunch of snow beneath their feet only served to hasten their steps. The man they sought wasn't violent, merely duped by THRUSH into believing they would give him the laboratory he desired for experiments he vowed would help people. When he discovered the lie, that the formula he had developed was going to be weaponized and used to destroy entire populations, Vernon Jones had fled the satrapy and landed at UNCLE Headquarters. Something spooked the man, however, and he walked out of Del Floria's with no intention of joining any type of organization at all, just the desire to be rid of everyone who sought to control his work. Napoleon had managed to place the homing device, his keen instincts alerting him to Jones' proclivity for flight.

Now, as they approached the little house where Jones was, and where the fireplace was obviously roaring with a warm and much desired fire, Solo and Kuryakin hoped for a peaceful encounter as well as a warm room. No sleep, little to eat or drink in the past twenty-four hours had made them edgy and slightly irritable. Each man was doing his best to not acquiesce to the natural tendencies that might be expected under less than comfortable or amenable circumstances.

In addition to the evidence of a fire within, an aroma began to waft towards them.

"Do you smell… he's cooking something. I am quite starved, do you think he'd be willing to feed us?" Illya was hopeful, after all they'd done nothing to Jones save to offer him a safe haven.

Napoleon smiled at his partner's question while he silently hoped for the same. They came to the front door and rang the bell, not at all confident that Vernon Jones would answer.

The door swung open and Jones seemed not at all surprised to see the agents. He gestured for them to enter without saying a word until they were inside. He took their coats and ushered them into the sitting room where the fire was indeed blazing, a welcome warmth to the two men.

"Gentlemen, I apologize for leading you on this chase. Mr. Solo, I realized you had tagged me with that device even as you did it.' He noted a look of embarrassment on Napoleon's face.

"No, no really… I was counting on being followed. I didn't want to remain at your headquarters, however. I needed to come here, to be at ease in my own home. THRUSH doesn't know about this place, in case you're wondering. But you are my guests now, so please, come in and sit down. I've prepared a hearty stew and some freshly baked bread… we shall dine together and discuss the future."

All of this took the UNCLE agents by surprise, but then it was at least a welcome surprise. It turned out that Vernon Jones was agreeable to working with UNCLE, but he would require the right to work here, in the laboratory he kept in his basement. An UNCLE contingent would be present to keep him and his work safe, and he agreed to come to Headquarters periodically for the purpose of meeting with Alexander Waverly and staff who might need to be included.

The stew was delicious and the warmth of the house a welcome respite for the weary agents. Jones invited them to stay the night rather than drive back in the cold and dark. He had rooms for them, with a fireplace in each one. It was like a small vacation to be treated so hospitably, and to spend time away from the realities of their world.

Vernon Jones was a man whose goal in life was to benefit mankind, and his naive belief that THRUSH had been other than it was made him careful now to observe the men from UNCLE, to discern better than before the intentions of an organization courting him and his genius.

UNCLE passed that inspection, and he decided that the two men sent after him were honorable and honest. He would work for UNCLE as long as he could trust them. He hoped it would last a lifetime.


	34. Chapter 34: Turn Around

There was frustration written all over his face. A sheen of perspiration gave away Illya's discomfort with the situation, and a silent stream of Russian coursed through his mind as he watched the scene unfold before his unbelieving eyes.

Napoleon Solo looked across the room at his partner and smiled, a wan and slightly tentative expression that did not convince the Russian that his friend was actually happy.

The ceremony was stiff and unyielding, something that struck Illya Kuryakin as being inconsistent with the content. If Napoleon were going to be installed as temporary chief of the New York Headquarters, then why all of this nonsense? If Alexander Waverly had so willed it, why then should there be any of this formality to the change in regime, so to speak?

Illya looked up from his thoughts, his face a **white** relief against the dark mahogany walls behind him. He was Napoleon's second in command, had been required to attend this little soiree. He shouldn't call it that, but it was so unnatural feeling. Mr. Waverly's passing had been sudden and without warning, and now all of this. Napoleon had taken it well; perhaps too well. For Illya it had caused a sense of doom to hover over him like a dark cloud. These men who now held their futures had been Waverly's peers, the four lesser chiefs to his higher calling.

And now he was gone. Illya still felt his insides **shake** with the impact of the news. No one had been with him except for …

Napoleon.

Something was wrong. Something was off.

Illya began to search the room, to examine every face for something familiar. Waverly was like a sly old fox, always with a plan and often involved in a gambit of some sort to catch another wily subject. This entire scene had been constructed in order for Waverly to observe something, or someone.

Who?

And then Illya saw it. A nod of acknowledgement from among the four men seated around Napoleon; it was not directed to the others but out towards someone in the audience of twenty or so observers. Illya followed the line of sight dictated by Cho's eyes as he looked to his co-conspirator; it was obvious to whom he was signaling.

As one the would be assassin and Kuryakin rose from their seats, one pointing a gun at Napoleon and Illya taking aim at the rogue UNCLE agent. Section III agents who were stationed at the door assumed a position of defense to keep everyone inside the room.

"Drop your weapon!" Illya yelled across the heads of people who now cowered low in their seats. Cho, head of the Eastern Region, wrapped an arms around Napoleon's neck and held a gun there as he demanded of Illya that it was him who should drop his weapon.

"Enough Mr. Kuryakin. Mr. Solo will die and my plan will succeed, regardless of your heroics. The men at the door are handpicked by me, and UNCLE is now mine to contral alongside the Central Committee of THRUSH. We win, Mr. Kuryakin, and Waverly's dream dies here." He was smug in the declaration of his victory, but it was short-lived when the two agents at the door turned their guns on him and another fired a dart that struck his neck with keen accuracy.

"Stand down, Mr. Kuryakin, everything is under control now." Alexander Waverly slowly pulled off the latex mask that had allowed him to enter the room without notice. He had positioned his men among the traitor's own, maneuvering this attempted coup into a signed confession, with a room full of witnesses.

Cho would pay a price, and Waverly was judge and jury.

Illya was at once both relieved and angry. He had not been included in this plan, had been forced to endure the pangs of sorrow and regret that accompany the death of someone close. He would deal with that later, but for now it was a great relief to him for Mr. Waverly to be returned to his post.

Napoleon wanted to tell his partner but it was too precarious a situation to let anyone else know the details. Illya would forgive him… eventually.

It was several hours before the two friends were able to sit and talk alone about the events of the day.

"Illya, I wanted to have you involved in this, but…" Illya stopped Napoleon.

"It was not necessary, and ultimately the plan worked which means it was the right plan." Napoleon shook his head, grateful for a partner who was so logical. Well, most of the time he was grateful.

"Thank you.' Suddenly the events of the day settled in on the CEA; a drop in the adrenaline levels that ran so high in these men caused him to sigh so deeply it seemed almost endless.

"It could have gone all wrong Illya. I'm so glad you were there to cover my back. Thank you."

That took Illya by surprise, the idea that he would ever not be there to save his partner. That was the job along with saving the world. He smiled at the thought of it, of how grand it all sounded.

"You are welcome. I expect the same you know." He said it with a smile, and in return Napoleon slapped him on the back and offered to buy him dinner.

Some things never changed, in spite of saving the world on a regular basis.


End file.
